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VI. 

SHARPE'S SELECT EDITION 

OF THE 

BRITISH PROSE WRITERS. 




JUST PUBLISHED, 

Part I. Walpole's Reminiscences , price 2s. 6d. 

II. Walpoliana, ...... price 2^. 6d, 

III. Burns's Letters, Vol. I. ,' price 2.?. 6d. 

IV. Burns's Letters, Vol. II. . price 2s. 6d. 
.V. Goldsmith's Essays * . , . price 2s. 6d. 

Gray's Letters will form Parts VII. and VIII. 

Any Volume may be purchased separately. 



THE BEE, 

A 

COLLECTION OF ESSAYS. 

BY 

OLIVER GOLDSMITH, M.B. 



MDCCCXIX. 



Printed by T. D avisos, 
Whitefriars. 



.THE • BEE, 

A 

COLLECTION OF ESS1TS, 

OLIVER 'GOLDSMITH. 




PUBLISHED) WJOBU SHAE]PJE/JPICCAI>IILL']l' 
1819. 



J if 



2Zt 






THE BEE. 



No. 1. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 6, 1759. 



INTRODUCTION. 



There is not, perhaps, a more whimsically dis- 
mal figure in nature, than a man of real modesty 
who assumes an air of impudence ; who, while his 
heart beats with anxiety, studies ease, and affects 
good humour. In this situation, however, a perio- 
dical writer often finds himself, upon his first at- 
tempt to address the public in form. All his power 
of pleasing is damped by solicitude, and his cheer- 
fulness dashed with apprehension. Impressed with 
the terrors of the tribunal before which he is going 
to appear, his natural humour turns to pertness, 
and for real wit he is obliged to substitute vivacity. 
His first publication draws a crowd ; they part dis- 
satisfied, and the author, never more to be indulged 
with a favourable hearing, is left, to condemn the 
indelicacy of his own address, or their want of dis- 
cernment. 



4 THE BEE. s 

For my part, as I was never distinguished for ad- 
dress, and have often even blundered in making my 
bow, such bodings as these had like to have totally 
repressed my ambition. I was at a loss whether to 
give the public specious promises, or give none ; 
wiiether to be merry or sad on this solemn occasion. 
If I should decline all merit, it was too probable the 
hasty reader might have taken me at my word. If, 
on the other hand, like labourers in the magazine 
trade, I had, with modest impudence, humbly pre- 
sumed to promise an epitome of all the good things 
that ever were said or written, this might have dis- 
gusted those readers I most desire to please. Had 
I been merry, I might have been censured as vastly 
low ; and had I been sorrowful, I might have been 
left to mourn in solitude and silence : in short, 
whichever way I turned, nothing presented but 
prospects of terror, despair, chandler' shops, and 
waste paper. 

In this debate, between fear and ambition, my 
publisher happening to arrive, interrupted for a 
while my anxiety. Perceiving my embarrassment 
about making my first appearance, he instantly 
offered his assistance and advice : " You must know, 
sir," says he, " that the republic of letters is at pre- 
sent divided into three classes. One writer, for 
instance, excels at a plan, or a title-page, another 
works away the body of the book, and a third is 
a dab at an index. Thus a magazine is not the 
result of any single man's industry ; but goes 
through as many hands as a new pin, before it is 
fit for the public. I fancy, sir," continues he, " I 
can provide an eminent hand, and upon moderate 



INTRODUCTION. 5 

terms, to draw up a promising plan to smooth up 
our readers a little, and pay them, as Colonel 
Charteris paid his seraglio, at the rate of three- 
halfpence in hand, and three shillings more in pro- 
mises." 

He was proceeding in his advice, which, how- 
ever, I thought proper to decline, by assuring him, 
that as I intended to pursue no fixed method, so it 
was impossible to form any regular plan ; deter- 
mined never to be tedious, in order to be logical, 
wherever pleasure presented, I was resolved to 
follow. . Like the Bee, which I had taken for the 
title of my paper, I would rove from flower to 
flower, with seeming inattention, but concealed 
choice, expatiate over all the beauties of the season, 
and make my industry my amusement. 

This reply may also serve as an apology to the 
reader, who expects, before he sits down, a bill of 
his future entertainment. It would be improper to 
pall his curiosity by lessening his surprise, or anti- 
cipate any pleasure I am able to procure him, by 
saying what shall come next. Thus much, how- 
ever, he may be assured of, that neither war nor 
scandal shall make any part of it. Homer finely 
imagines his deity turning away with horror from 
the prospect of a field of battle, and seeking tran- 
quillity among a nation noted for peace and simpli- 
city. Happy could any effort of mine, but for a 
moment, repress that savage pleasure some men find 
in the daily accounts of human misery ! How 
gladly would I lead them from scenes of blood and 
altercation, to prospects of innocence and ease, 
where every breeze breathes health, ancl every sound 
is but the echo of tranquillity J 



6 THE BEE. 

But whatever the merit of his intentions may be, 
every writer is now convinced that he must be 
chiefly indebted to good fortune for finding readers 
willing to allow him any degree of reputation. It 
has been remarked that almost every character 
which has excited either attention or praise, has 
owed part of its success to merit, and part to a 
happy concurrence of circumstances in its favour. 
Had Caesar or Cromwell exchanged countries, the 
one might have been a serjeant, and the other an 
exciseman. So it is with wit, which generally suc- 
ceeds more from being happily addressed, than 
from its native poignancy. A bon mot, for instance, 
that might be relished at White's, may lose all its 
flavour when delivered at the Cat and Bagpipes in 
St. Giles's. A jest calculated to spread at a ga- 
ming-table, may be received with a perfect neutrality 
of face, should it happen to drop in a mackarel 
boat. We have all seen dunces triumph in some 
companies, when men of real humour were disre- 
garded, by a general combination in favour of stu- 
pidity. To drive the observation as far as it will 
go, should the labours of a writer, who designs his 
performances for readers of a more refined appe- 
tite, fall into the hands of a devourer of compila- 
tions, what can he expect but contempt and con- 
fusion ! If his merits are to be determined by 
judges who estimate the value of a book from its 
bulk, or its frontispiece, every rival must acquire 
an easy superiority, who, with persuasive eloquence, 
promises four extraordinary pages of letter press, 
or three beautiful prints, curiously coloured from 
nature. 



INTRODUCTION. 7 

But to proceed; though I cannot promise as 
much entertainment, or as much elegance, as others 
have done, yet the reader may be assured he shall 
have as much of both as I can. He shall, at least, 
find me alive while I study his entertainment ; for 
I solemnly assure him, I was never yet possessed of 
the secret at once of writing and sleeping. 

During the course of this paper, therefore, all the 
wit and learning I have are heartily at his service ; 
which if, after so candid a confession, he should, 
notwithstanding, still find it intolerably dull, low, 
or sad stuff, this I protest is more than I know. I 
have a clear conscience, and am entirely out of the 
secret. 

Yet I would not have him, upon the perusal of a 
single paper, pronounce me incorrigible ; he may try 
a second, which, as there is a studied difference in 
subject and style, may be more suited to his taste : 
if this also fails, I must refer him to a third, or even 
to a fourth, in case of extremity ; if he should still 
continue refractory, and find me dull to the last, I 
must inform him, with Bayes in the Rehearsal, that 
I think him a very odd kind of a fellow, and desire 
no more of his acquaintance. 

It is with such reflections as these I endeavour to 
fortify myself against the future contempt or neglect 
of some readers, and am prepared for their dislike 
by mutual recrimination. If such should impute 
dealing neither in battles nor scandal to me as a 
fault, instead of acquiescing in their censure, I must 
beg leave to tell them a story. 

A traveller, in his way to Italy, happening to pass 
at the foot of the Alps, found himself at last in a 



country where the inhabitants had each a large ex- 
crescence depending from the chin, like the pouch 
of a monkey. This deformity, as it was endemic, 
and the people little used to strangers, it had been 
the custom time immemorial to look upon as the 
greatest ornament of the human visage. Ladies 
grew toasts from the size of their chins, and none 
were regarded as pretty fellows but such whose 
faces were broadest at the bottom. It was Sunday, 
a country church was at hand, and our traveller was 
willing to perform the duties of the day. Upon his 
first appearance at the church door, the eyes of all 
were naturally fixed upon the stranger ; but what 
was their amazement, when they found that he 
actually wanted that emblem of beauty, a pursed 
chin ! This was a defect that not a single creature 
had sufficient gravity (though they were noted for 
being grave) to withstand. Stifled bursts of laugh- 
ter, winks, and whispers, circulated from visage to 
visage, and the prismatic figure of the stranger's face 
was a fund of infinite gaiety; even the parson, 
equally remarkable for his gravity and chin, could 
hardly refrain joining in the good humour. Our 
traveller could no longer patiently continue an ob- 
ject for deformity to point at. " Good folks," said 
he, " I perceive that I am the unfortunate cause of 
all this good humour. It is true, I may have faults 
in abundance, but I shall never be induced to reckon* 
my want of a swelled face among the number.* 

* Dr. Goldsmith inserted this introduction, with a few 
trifling alterations, in the volume of Essays he published in 
the year 1765. 



REMARKS ON OUR THEATRES. 9 

ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH, STRUCK BLIND 
WITH LIGHTNING. 

IMITATED FROM THE SPANISH. 

Lumine Aeon dextro, capta est Leonida sinistro, 
Et poterat forma vineere uterque Deos. 

Parve puer, lumen quod habes concede puellae; 
Sic tu caecus Amor, sic erit ilia Venus. 



REMARKS ON OUR THEATRES. 

Our theatres are now opened, and all Grub-street 
is preparing its advice to the managers ; we shall 
undoubtedly hear learned disquisitions on the struc- 
ture of one actor's legs, and another's eye-brows. 
We shall be told much of enunciations, tones, and 
attitudes, and shall have our lightest pleasures com- 
mented upon by didactic dulness. We shall, it is 
feared, be told, that Garrick is a fine actor, but 
then, as a manager, so avaricious ! That Palmer is 
a most surprising genius, and Holland likely to do 
well in a particular cast of character. We shall 
have them giving Shuter instructions to amuse us 
by rule, and deploring over the ruins of desolated 
majesty at Covent-Garden. As I love to be advising 
too, for advice is easily given, and bears a show of 
wisdom and superiority, I must be permitted to offer 
a few observations upon our theatres and actors, 

b 2 



10 THE BEE. 

without, on this trivial occasion, throwing my 
thoughts into the formality of method. 

There is something in the deportment of all our 
players infinitely more stiff and formal than among 
the actors of other nations. Their action sits uneasy 
upon them ; for as the English use very little ges- 
ture in ordinary conversation, our English-bred 
actors are obliged to supply stage gestures by their 
imagination alone. A French comedian finds pro- 
per models of action in every company and in 
every coffee-house he enters. An Englishman is 
obliged to take his models from the stage itself; 
he is obliged to imitate nature from an imitation of 
nature. I know of no set of men more likely to be 
improved by travelling than those of the theatrical 
profession. The inhabitants of the continent are 
less^reserved than here ; they may be seen through 
upon a first acquaintance ; such are the proper mo- 
dels to draw from ; they are at once striking, and 
are found in 'great abundance. 

Though it would be inexcusable in a comedian to 
add any thing of his own to the poet's dialogue, yet 
as to action he is entirely at liberty. By this he may 
show the fertility of his genius, the poignancy of his 
humour, and the exactness of his judgment ; we 
scarcely see a coxcomb or a fool in common life that 
has not some peculiar oddity in his action. These 
peculiarities it is not in the power of words to re- 
present, and depend solely upon the actor. They 
give a relish to the humour of the poet, and make 
the appearance of nature more illusive ; the Italians, 
it is true, mask some characters, and endeavour to 
preserve the peculiar humour by the make of the 



REMARKS ON OUR THEATRES. 11 

mask ; but I have seen others still preserve a great 
fund of humour in the face without a mask; one 
actor, particularly, by a squint which he threw into 
some characters of low life, assumed a look of in- 
finite solidity. This, though upon reflection we 
might condemn, yet immediately upon representa- 
tion we could not avoid being pleased with. To 
illustrate what I have been saying by the plays I have 
of late gone to see ; in the Miser, which was played 
a few nights ago at Covent-Garden, Lovegold appears 
through the whole in circumstances of exaggerated 
avarice ; all the player's action, therefore, should 
conspire with the poet's design, and represent him 
as an epitome of penury. The French comedian, 
in this character, in the midst of one of his most 
violent passions, while he appears in an ungovern- 
able rage, feels the demon of avarice still upon him, 
and stoops down to pick up a pin, which he quilts 
into the flap of his coat-pocket with great assiduity. 
Two candles are lighted up for his wedding ; he 
flies, and turns one of them into the socket ; it is, 
however, lighted up ' again ; he then steals to it, . 
and privately crams it into his pocket. The Mock- 
Doctor was lately played at the other house. Here 
again the comedian had an opportunity of heighten- 
ing the ridicule by action. The French player sits 
in a chair with a high back, and then begins to 
show away by talking nonsense, which he would 
have thought Latin by those who he knows do not 
understand a syllable of the matter. At last he 
grows enthusiastic, enjoys the admiration of the 
company, tosses his legs and arms about, and in the 
midst of his raptures and vociferation, he and the 



12 THE BEE. 

chair fall back together. All this appears dull 
enough in the recital ; but the gravity of Cato could 
not stand it in the representation. In short, there 
is hardly a character in comedy to which a player 
of any real humour might not add strokes of viva- 
city that could not fail of applause. But instead of 
this we too often see our fine gentlemen do nothing 
through a whole part, but strut, and open their 
snuff-box ; our pretty fellows sit indecently with 
their legs across, and our clowns pull up their 
breeches. These, if once or even twice repeated, 
might do well enough ; but to see them served up 
in every scene argues the actor almost as barren as 
the character he would expose. 

The magnificence of our theatres is far superior 
to any others in Europe, where plays only are acted. 
The great care our performers take in painting for 
a part, their exactness in all the minutiae of dress, 
and other little scenical proprieties, have been taken 
notice of by Ricoboni, a gentleman of Italy, who tra- 
velled Europe with no other design but to remark 
upon the stage ; but there are several improprieties 
still continued, or lately come into fashion. As, 
for instance, spreading a carpet punctually at the ' 
beginning of the death scene, in order to prevent 
our actors from spoiling their clothes ; this imme- 
diately apprises us of the tragedy to follow ; for 
laying the cloth is not a more sure indication of 
dinner than laying the carpet of bloody work at 
Drury-lane. Our little pages also with unmeaning 
faces, that bear up the train of a weeping princess, 
and our awkward lords in waiting, take off much 
from her distress. Mutes of every kind divide our 



REMARKS ON OUR THEATRES. 13 

attention, and lessen our sensibility ; but here it is 
entirely ridiculous, as we see them seriously em- 
ployed in doing nothing. If we must have dirty- 
shirted guards upon the theatres, they should be 
taught to keep' their eyes fixed on the actors, and 
not roll them round upon the audience, as if they 
were ogling the boxes. 

Beauty methinks seems a requisite qualification 
in an actress. This seems scrupulously observed 
elsewhere, and for my part I could wish to see it 
observed at home. I can never conceive a hero 
dying for love of a lady totally destitute of beauty. 
I must think the part unnatural, for I cannot bear 
to hear him call that face angelic, when even paint 
cannot hide its wrinkles. I must condemn him of 
stupidity, and the person whom I can accuse for 
want of taste will seldom become the object of my 
affections or admiration. But if this be a defect, 
what must be the entire perversion of scenical de- 
corum, when for instance we see an actress that 
might act the Wapping Landlady without a bolster, 
pining in the character of Jane Shore, and while 
unwieldy with fat, endeavouring to convince the 
audience that she is dying with hunger ! 

For the future then, I could wish that the parts 
of the young or beautiful were given to performers 
of suitable figures ; for I must own, I could rather 
see the stage filled with agreeable objects, though 
they might sometimes bungle a little, than see it 
crowded with withered or mis-shapen figures, be 
their emphasis, as I think it is called, ever so pro- 
per. The first may have the awkward appearance 
of new-raised troops ; but in viewing the last I can- 



14 • THE BEE. 

not avoid the mortification of fancying myself placed 
in an hospital of invalids. 



THE 

STORY OF ALCANDER AND SEPTIMIUS. 

TRANSLATED FROM A BYZANTINE HISTORIAN. 

Athens, even long after the decline of the Roman 
empire, still contined the seat of learning, polite- 
ness, and wisdom. The emperors and generals, who 
in these periods of approaching ignorance still felt 
a passion for science, from time to time added to 
its buildings, or increased its professorships. Theo- 
doric, the Ostrogoth, was of the number; he re- 
paired those schools which barbarity was suffering 
to fall into decay, and continued those pensions to 
men of learning, which avaricious governors had 
monopolized to themselves. 

In this city, and about this period, Alcander and 
Septimius were fellow students together. The one 
the most subtle reasoner of all the Lyceum ; the 
other the most eloquent speaker in the academic 
grove. Mutual admiration soon begot an acquaint- 
ance, and a similitude of disposition made them 
perfect friends. Their fortunes were nearly equal, 
their studies the same, and they were natives of 
the two most celebrated cities in the world ; for 
Alcander was of Athens, Septimius came from 
Rome. 



ALCANDER AND SEPTIMIUS. 15 

In this mutual harmony they lived for some time 
together, when Alcander, after passing the first part 
of his youth in the indolence of philosophy, thought 
at length of entering into the busy world, and as a 
step previous to this, placed his affections on Hypa- 
tia, a lady of exquisite beauty. Hypatia showed no 
dislike to his addresses. The day of their intended 
nuptials was fixed, the previous ceremonies were 
performed, and nothing now remained but her be- 
ing conducted in triumph to the apartment of the 
intended bridegroom. 

An exultation in his own happiness, or his being 
unable to enjoy any satisfaction without making his 
friend Septimius a partner, prevailed upon him to 
introduce his mistress to his fellow student, which 
he did with all the gaiety of a man who found him- 
self equally hapuv in friendship and love. But this 
was an interview fatal to the peace of both. Septi- 
mius no sooner saw her, but he was smit with 
an involuntary passion. He used every effort, but 
in vain, to suppress desires at once so imprudent 
and unjust. He retired to his apartment in in- 
expressible agony ; and the emotions of his mind 
in a short time became so strong, that they 
brought on a fever, which the physicians judged 
incurable. 

During this illness Alcander watched him with 
all the anxiety of fondness, and brought his mis- 
tress to join in those amiable offices of friendship. 
The sagacity of the physicians, by this means, soon 
discovered the cause of their patient's disorder; 
and Alcander, being apprised of their discovery, at 
length extorted a confession from the reluctant 
dying lover. 



16 THE BEE. 

It would but delay the narrative to describe the 
conflict between love and friendship in the breast 
of Alcander on this occasion ; it is enough to say, 
that the Athenians were at this time arrived to such 
refinement in morals, that every virtue was carried 
to excess. In short, forgetful of his own felicity, 
he gave up his intended bride, iir all her charms, to 
the young Roman. They were married privately 
by his connivance ; and this unlooked-for change 
of fortune wrought as unexpected a change in the 
constitution of the now. happy Septimius. In a few 
days he was perfectly recovered, and set out with 
his fair partner for Rome. Here, by an exertion 
of those talents of which he was so eminently pos- 
sessed, he in a few years arrived at the highest 
dignities of the state, and was constituted the city 
judge, or praetor. 

Meanwhile Alcander not only felt the pain of be- 
ing separated from his friend and mistress, but a> 
prosecution was also commenced against him by the 
relations of Hypatia, for his having basely given her 
up, as was suggested, for money. Neither his inno- 
cence of the crime laid to his charge, nor his elo- 
quence in his own defence, was able to withstand 
the influence of a powerful party. 

He was cast, and condemned to pay an enormous 
fine. Unable to raise so large a sum at the time 
appointed, his possessions were confiscated, him- 
self stripped of the habit of freedom, exposed in the 
market-place, and sold as a slave to the highest 
bidder. 

A merchant of Thrace becoming his purchaser, 
Alcander, with some other companions of distress, 
was carried into the region of desolation and ste- 



ALCANDER AND SEPTIMIUS. 17 

rility. His stated employment was to follow the 
herds of an imperious master, and his skill in hunt- 
ing was all that was allowed him to supply a preca- 
rious subsistence. Condemned to hopeless servi- 
tude, every morning waked him to renewal of fa- 
mine or toil, and every change of season served but 
to aggravate his unsheltered distress. Nothing but 
death or flight was left him, and almost certain 
death was the consequence of his attempting to fly. 
After some years of bondage, however, an opportu- 
nity of escaping offered ; he embraced it with ar- 
dour, and travelling by night, and lodging in caverns 
by day, to shorten a long story, he at last arrived in 
Rome. The day of Alcander's arrival, Septimius 
sat in the forum administering justice ; and hither 
our wanderer came, expecting to be instantly known, 
and publicly acknowledged. Here he stood the whole 
day among the crowd, watching the eyes of the judge, 
and expecting to be taken notice of ; but so much 
was he altered by a long succession of hardships, 
that he passed entirely without notice ; and in the 
evening, when he was going up to the praetor's chair, 
he was brutally repulsed by the attending lictors. 
The attention of the poor is generally driven from 
one ungrateful object to another. Night coming on, 
he now found himself under a necessity of seeking 
a place to lie in, and yet knew not where to ap- 
ply. All emaciated and in rags- as he was, none 
of the citizens would harbour so much wretched- 
ness, and sleeping in the streets might be attended 
with interruption or danger : in short, he was 
obliged to take up his lodging in one of the tombs 
without the city, the usual retreat of guilt, poverty, 
or despair. 



18 THE BEE. 

In this mansion of horror, laying his head upon an 
inverted urn, he forgot his miseries for a while in 
sleep ; and virtue found on this flinty couch more 
ease than down can supply to the guilty. 

It was midnight, when two robbers came to 
make this cave their retreat, but happening to dis- 
agree about the division of their plunder, one of 
them stabbed the other to the heart, and left him 
weltering in blood at the entrance. In these cir- 
cumstances he was found next morning, and this 
naturally induced a further inquiry. The alarm 
was spread, the cave was examined, Alcander was 
found sleeping, and immediately apprehended and 
accused of robbery and murder. The circumstances 
against him were strong, and the wretchedness of 
his appearance confirmed suspicion. Misfortune 
and he were now so long acquainted, that he at last 
became regardless of life. He detested a world 
where he had found only ingratitude, falsehood, 
and cruelty, and was determined to make no de- 
fence. Thus lowering with resolution, he was drag- 
ged, bound with cords, before the tribunal of Septi- 
mius. The proofs were positive against him, and 
he offered nothing in his own vindication ; the 
judge, therefore, was proceeding to doom him to 
a most cruel and ignominious death, when, as if 
illumined by a ray from Heaven, he discovered, 
through all his misery, the features, though dim 
with sorrow, of his long-lost, loved Alcander. It is 
impossible to describe his joy and his pain on this 
strange occasion ; happy in once more seeing the 
person he most loved on earth, distressed at finding 
him in such circumstances. Thus agitated by 
contending passions, he flew from his tribunal, and 



LETTER FROM A TRAVELLER. 19 

falling on the neck of his dear benefactor, burst into 
an agony of distress. The attention of the mul- 
titude was soon, however, divided by another ob- 
ject. The robber, who had been really guilty, was 
apprehended selling his plunder, and, struck with a 
panic, confessed his crime. He was brought bound 
to the same tribunal, and acquitted every other per- 
son of any partnership in his guilt. Need the se- 
quel be related ? Alcander was acquitted, shared 
the friendship and the honours of his friend Sep- 
timius, lived afterwards in happiness and ease, 
and left it to be engraved on his tomb, " That no 
circumstances are so desperate which Providence 
may not relieve." 



A LETTER FROM A TRAVELLER. 

Cracow, Aug. 2, 1758. 
My dear Will, 
You see by the date of my letter that I am arrived 
in Poland. When will my wanderings be at an end ? 
When will my restless disposition give me leave to 
enjoy the present hour ? When at Lyons, I thought 
all happiness lay beyond the Alps ; when in Italy, I 
found myself still in want of something, and expect- 
ed to leave solicitude behind me by going into Ro- 
melia, and now you find me turning back, still ex- 
pecting ease every where but where I am. It is 
now seven years since I saw the face of a single 
creature who cared a farthing whether I was dead 
or alive. Secluded from all the comforts of confi- 



20 THE BEE. 

dence, friendship, or society, I feel the solitude of 
an hermit, but not his ease. 

The prince of * * * has taken me in his train, so 
that I am in no danger of starving for this bout. 
The prince's governor is a rude ignorant pedant, 
and his tutor a battered rake : thus, between two 
such characters, you may imagine he is finely in- 
structed. I made some attempts to display all the 
little knowledge I had acquired by reading or ob- 
servation ; but I find myself regarded as an igno- 
rant intruder. The truth is, I shall never be able 
to acquire a power of expressing myself with ease 
in any language but nly own ; and out of my own 
countiy the highest character I can ever acquire is 
that of being a philosophic vagabond. - 

When I consider myself in the country which was 
once so formidable in war, and spread terror and 
desolation over the whole Roman empire, I can 
hardly account for the present wretchedness and 
pusillanimity of its inhabitants ; a prey to every 
invader ; their cities plundered without an enemy ; 
their magistrates seeking redress by complaints, 
and not by vigour. Every thing conspires to raise 
my compassion for their miseries, were not my 
thoughts too busily engaged by my own. The whole 
kingdom is in a strange disorder : when our equi- 
page, which consists of the prince and thirteen at- 
tendants, had arrived at some towns, there were no 
conveniences to be found, and we were obliged to 
have girls to conduct us to the next. I have seen a 
woman travel thus on horseback before us for 
thirty miles, and think herself highly paid, and 
make twenty reverences, upon receiving, with ec- 



LETTER FROM A TRAVELLER. 21 

stasy, about two-pence for her trouble. In general 
we were better served by the women than the men 
on those occasions. The men seem directed by a 
low sordid interest alone ; they seemed mere ma- 
chines, and all their thoughts were employed in the 
care of their horses. If we gently desired them to 
make more speed, they took not the least notice ; kind 
language was what they had by no means been used 
to. It was proper to speak to them in the tones of 
anger, and sometimes it was even necessary to use 
blows to excite them to their duty. How different 
these from the common people of England, whom 
a blow might induce to return the affront sevenfold ! 
These poor people, however, from being brought 
up to vile usage, lose all the respect which they 
should have for themselves. They have contracted 
a habit of regarding constraint as the great rule of 
their duty. When they were treated with mildness, 
they no longer continued to perceive a superiority. 
They fancied themselves our equals, and a continu- 
ance of our humanity might probably have ren- 
dered them insolent ; but the imperious tone, 
menaces, and blows, at once changed their sensa- 
tions and their ideas : their ears and shoulders 
taught their souls to shrink back into servitude, 
from which they had for some moments fancied 
themselves disengaged. 

The enthusiasm of liberty an Englishman feels is 
never so strong as when presented by such prospects 
as these. I must own, in all my indigence, it is one 
of my comforts, (perhaps, indeed, it is my only 
boast,) that I am of that happy country ; though I 
scorn to starve there ; though I do not choose to 



22 THE BEE. 

lead a life of wretched dependence, or be an object 
for my former acquaintance to point at. While you 
enjoy all the ease and elegance of prudence and vir- 
tue, your old friend wanders over the world, with- 
out a single anchor to hold by, or a friend except 
you to confide in. 

Yours, &c. 



A SHORT ACCOUNT 

OF THE LATE M. MAUPERTUIS. 

M. Maupertuis, lately deceased, was the first to , 
whom the English philosophers owed their being 
particularly admired by the rest of Europe. The 
romantic system of Des Cartes was adapted to the 
taste of the superficial and the indolent : the foreign 
universities had embraced it with ardour, and such 
are seldom convinced of their errors, till all others 
give up such false opinions as untenable. The phi- . 
losophy of Newton, and the metaphysics of Locke, 
appeared ; but, like all new truths, they were at 
once received with opposition and contempt. The 
English, it is true, studied, understood, and conse- 
quently admired them ; it was very different on the 
Continent. Fontenelle, who seemed to preside over 
the republic of letters, unwilling to acknowledge 
that all his life had been spent in erroneous philo- 
sophy, joined in the universal disapprobation, 
and the English philosophers seemed entirely un- 
known. 

Maupertuis, however, made them his study ; he 
thought he might oppose the physics of his country, 



SHORT ACCOUNT OF M. MAUPERTUIS. 2& 

and yet still be a good citizen : he defended our 
countrymen, wrote in their favour, and at last, as 
he had truth on his side, carried his cause. Almost 
all the learning of the English, till very lately, was 
conveyed in the language of France. The writings 
of Maupertuis spread the reputation of his master, 
Newton, and by a happy fortune have united his 
fame with that of our human prodigy. 

The first of his performances, openly in vindica- 
tion of the Newtonian system, is his treatise inti- 
tuled Sur la figure des Astres, if I remember right ; 
a work at once expressive of a deep geometrical 
knowledge, and the most happy manner of de- 
livering abstruse science with ease. This met with 
violent opposition from a people, though fond of 
novelty in every thing else, yet, however, in matters 
of science, attached to ancient opinions with bigotry. 
As the old and obstinate fell away, the youth of 
France embraced the new opinions, and now seem 
more eager to defend Newton than even his country- 
men. 

The oddity of character which great men are 
sometimes remarkable for, Maupertuis was not en- 
tirely free from. If we can believe Voltaire, he 
once attempted to castrate himself; but whether 
this be true or no, it is certain he was extremely 
whimsical. Though born to a large fortune, when 
employed in mathematical inquiries, he disregarded 
his person to such a degree, and loved retirement so 
much, that he has been more than once put on the 
list of modest beggars by the curates of Paris, when 
he retired to some private quarter of the town, in 
order to enjoy his meditations without interruption. 



24 THE BEE. 

The character given of him by one of Voltaire's an- 
tagonists, if it can be depended upon, is much to his 
honour. " You," says this writer to M. Voltaire, 
" you were entertained by the King of Prussia as a 
buffoon, but Maupertuis as a philosopher." It is 
certain that the preference which this royal scholar 
gave to Maupertuis was the cause of Voltaire's dis- 
agreement with him. Voltaire could not bear to 
see a man, whose talents he had no great opinion 
of, preferred before him as president of the royal 
academy. His Micromegas was designed to ridicule 
Maupertuis ; and probably it has brought more dis- 
grace on the author than the subject. Whatever 
absurdities men of letters have indulged, and how 
fantastical soever the modes of science have been, 
their anger is still more subject to ridicule. 



2. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 13, 1759. 



ON DRESS. 

Foreigners observe, that there are no ladies in the 
world more beautiful, or more ill-dressed, than 
those of England. Our country-women have been 
compared to those pictures, where the face is the 
work of a Raphael $ but the draperies thrown out 
by some empty pretender, destitute of taste, and 
entirely unacquainted with design. 

If I were a poet, I might observe, on this occa- 
sion, that so much beauty set off with all the advan- 



ON DRESS. 25 

tages of dress, would be too powerful an antagonist 
for the opposite sex, and therefore it was wisely or- 
dered, that our ladies should want taste, lest their 
admirers should entirely want reason. 

But to confess a truth, I do not find they have a 
greater aversion to fine clothes than the women of 
any other country whatsoever. I cannot fancy 
that a shopkeeper's wife in Cheapside has a greater 
tenderness for the fortune of her husband than a 
citizen's wife in Paris : or that miss in a boarding- 
school is more an economist in dress than made- 
moiselle in a nunnery. 

Although Paris may be accounted the soil in 
which almost every fashion takes its rise, its influ- 
ence is never so general there as with us. They 
study there the happy method of uniting grace 
and fashion, and never excuse a woman for being 
awkwardly dressed, by saying her clothes are made 
in the mode. A French woman is a perfect 
architect in dress ; she never, with Gothic igno- 
rance, mixes the orders ; she never tricks out a 
squabby Doric shape with Corinthian finery ; or, to 
speak without metaphor, she conforms to general 
fashion, only, when it happens not to be repugnant 
to private beauty. 

Our ladies, on the contrary, seem to have no 
other standard for grace but the run of the town. 
If fashion gives the word, every distinction of 
beauty, complexion, or stature ceases. Sweeping 
trains, Prussian bonnets, and trollopees, as like 
each other as if cut from the same piece, level all 
to one standard. The mall, the gardens, and the 
playhouses are filled with ladies in uniform, and 
their whole appearance shows as little variety or 

c 



26 THE BEE. 

taste as if their clothes were bespoke by the colonel 
of a marching regiment, or fancied by the same 
artist who dresses the three battalions of guards. 

But not only ladies of every shape and com- 
plexion, but of every age too, are possessed of this 
unaccountable passion of dressing in the same man- 
ner. A lady of no quality can be distinguished 
from a lady of some quality only by the redness of 
her hands, and a woman of sixty, masked, might 
easily pass for her grand- daughter. I remember, a 
few days ago, to have walked behind a damsel, 
tossed out in in all the gaiety of fifteen ; her dress 
was loose, unstudied, and seemed the result of con- 
scious beauty. I called up all my poetry on this 
occasion, and fancied twenty Cupids prepared for 
execution in every folding of her white negligee. I 
had prepared my imagination for an angel's face 5 
but what was my mortification to find that the ima- 
ginary goddess was no other than my cousin Han- 
nah, four years older than myself, and I shall be 
sixty-two the twelfth of next November. 

After the transports of our first salute were over, 
I could not avoid running my eye over her whole 
appearance. Her gown was of cambrick, cut short 
before, in order to discover ah high-heeled shoe, 
which was buckled almost at the toe. Her cap, if 
cap it might be called that cap was none, consisted 
of a few bits of cambrick, and flowers of painted 
paper stuck on one side of her head. Her bosom, 
that had felt no hand, but the hand of time, these 
twenty years, rose suing, but in vain, to be pressed. 
I could, indeed, have wished her more than an 
handkerchief of Paris-net to shade her beauties ; 
for, as Tasso says of the rose -bed, " Quanto si mos- 



ON DRESS* 27 

tra men tanto epiu bella," I should think hers 
most pleasing when least discovered. 

As my cousin had not put on all this finery for 
nothing, she was ' at that time sallying out to the 
park, when I had overtaken her. Perceiving, how- 
ever, that I had on my best wig, she offered, if I 
would 'squire her there, to send home the footman. 
Though I trembled for our reception in public, yet 
I could not, with any civility, refuse ; so to be as 
gallant as possible, I took her hand in my arm, and 
thus we marched on together. 

When we made our entry at the park, two anti- 
quated figures, so polite and so tender as we seemed 
to be, soon attracted the eyes of the company. As 
we made our way among crowds who were out to 
show their finery as well as we, wherever we came 
I perceived we brought good-humour in our train. 
The polite could not forbear smiling, and the vul- 
gar burst out into a horse laugh at our grotesque 
figures. Cousin Hannah, who was perfectly con- 
scious of the rectitude of her own appearance, at- 
tributed all this mirth to the oddity of mine, while 
I as cordially placed the whole to her account. 
Thus, from being two of the best-natured creatures 
alive, before we got half way up the mall we both 
began to grow peevish, and like two mice on a 
string endeavoured to revenge the impertinence of 
others upon ourselves. " I am amazed, cousin 
Jeffery," says miss, " that I can never get you to 
dress like a Christian. I knew we should have the 
eyes of the park upon us, with your great wig so 
frizzed, and yet so beggarly, and your monstrous 
muff. I hate those odious muffs." I could have 
patiently borne a criticism on all the rest of my 



equipage ; but as I had always a peculiar veneration 
for my muff, I could not forbear being piqued a 
little, and throwing my eyes with a spiteful air on 
her bosom," I could heartily wish, madam," re- 
plied I, " that, for your sake, my muff was cut into 
a tippet." 

As my cousin by this time was grown heartily 
ashamed of her gentleman usher, and as I was never 
very fond of any kind of exhibition myself, it was 
mutually agreed to retire for a while to one of the 
seats, and from that retreat remarked on others as 
freely as they had remarked on us. 

When seated, we continued silent for some time, 
employed in very different speculations. I regarded 
the whole company, now passing in review before 
me, as drawn out merely for my amusement. For 
my entertainment the beauty had all that morning 
been improving her charms, the beau had put on 
lace, and the young doctor a big wig, merely to please 
me. But quite different were the sentiments of 
cousin Hannah ; she regarded every well-dressed 
woman as a victorious rival, hated every face that 
seemed dressed in good humour, or wore the ap- 
pearance of greater happiness than her own. I 
perceived her uneasiness, and attempted to lessen 
it, by observing that there was no company in the 
park to-day. To this she readily assented ; " and 
yet," says she, " it is full enough of scrubs of one 
kind or another.'' My smiling at this observation 
gave her spirits to pursue the bent of her inclina- 
tion, and now she began to exhibit her skill in se- 
cret history, as she found me disposed to listen. 
(( Observe," says she to me, " that old woman in 
tawdry silk, and dressed out even beyond the 



ON DRESS. 29 

fashion. That is miss Biddy Evergreen. Miss Biddy, 
it seems, has money, and as she considers that money 
was never so scarce as it is now, she seems resolved 
to keep what she has to herself. She is ugly enough 
you see ; yet I assure you, she has refused several 
offers, to my own knowledge, within this twelve- 
month. Let me see, three gentlemen from Ireland 
who study the law, two waiting captains, her doc- 
tor, and a Scotch preacher, who had like to have 
carried her off. All her time is passed between 
sickness and finery. Thus she spends the whole 
week in a close chamber, with no other company 
but her monkey, her apothecary, and cat, and 
comes dressed out to the park every Sunday, to 
show her airs, to get new lovers, to catch a new 
cold, and to make new work for the doctor. 

" There goes Mrs. Roundabout, I mean the fat 
lady in the lutestring trollopee. Between you and 
I, she is but a cutler's wife. See how she's dressed, 
as fine as hands and pins can make her, while her 
two marriageable daughters, like bunters, in stuif 
gowns, are now taking six pennyworth of tea at 
the White-conduit-house. Odious puss ! how she 
waddles along, with her train of two yards behind 
her ! She puts me in mind of my lord Bantam's 
Indian sheep, which are objiged to have their mon- 
strous tails trundled along in a go-cart. For all 
her airs, it goes to her husband's heart to see four 
yards of good lutestring wearing against the ground, 
like one of his knives on a grindstone. To speak 
my mind, cousin Jeffery, I never liked tails ; for, 
suppose a young fellow should be rude, and the 
lady should offer to step back in a fright, instead of 
retiring, she treads upon her train, and falls fairly 



30 THE BEE. 

on her back; and then you know, cousin, — her 
clothes may be spoiled. 

" x\h ! miss Mazzard ! I knew we should not 
miss her in the park : she in the monstrous Prus^ 
sian bonnet. Miss, though so very fine, was bred 
a milliner, and might have had some custom if she 
had minded her business ; but the girl was fond of 
finery, and instead of dressing her customers, laid 
out all her goods in adorning herself. Every new 
gown she put on impaired her credit ; she still, how- 
ever, went on improving her appearance, and les- 
sening her little fortune, and is now, you see, be- 
come a belle and a bankrupt." 

My cousin was proceeding in her remarks, which 
were interrupted by the approach of the very lady . 
she had been so freely describing. Miss had per- 
ceived her at a distance, and approached to salute 
her. I found, by the warmth of the two ladies' 
protestations, that they had been long intimate 
esteemed friends and acquaintance. Both Avere so. 
pleased at this happy rencounter, that they were 
resolved not to part for the day. So we all crossed 
the park together, and I saw them into a hackney 
coach at the gate of St. James's. J could not, how- 
ever, help observing, " That they are generally 
most ridiculous themselves, who are apt to see 
most ridicule in others." 



CHARLES XII. 31 

SOME PARTICULARS 

RELATIVE TO CHARLES XII. 

NOT COMMONLY KNOWN. 

Stockholm. 

Sir, 
I cannot resist your solicitations, though it is pos- 
sible I shall be unable to satisfy your curiosity. 
The polite of every country seem to have but one 
character. A gentleman of Sweden differs but 
little, except in trifles, from one of any other coun- 
try. It is among the vulgar we are to find those 
distinctions which characterize a people, and from 
them it is that I take my picture of the Swedes. 

Though the Swedes in general appear to languish 
under oppression, which often renders others wicked, 
or of malignant dispositions, it has not, however, 
the same influence upon them, as they are faithful, 
civil, and incapable of atrocious crimes. Would 
you believe that in Sweden highway robberies are 
not so much as heard of ? for my part I have not in 
the whole country seen a gibbet or a gallows. They 
pay an infinite respect to their ecclesiastics, whom 
they suppose to be the privy counsellors of Provi- 
dence, who, on their part, turn this credulity to 
their own advantage, and manage their parishioners 
as they please. In general, however, they seldom 
abuse their sovereign authority. Hearkened to as 
oracles, regarded as the dispensers of eternal re- 
wards and punishments, they readily influence their 
hearers into justice, and make them practical phi- 
losophers without the pains of study. 



32 THE BEE. 

As to their persons, they are perfectly well made, 
and the men particularly have a very engaging air. 
The greatest part of the boys which I saw in the 
country had very white hair. They were as beauti- 
ful as Cupids, and there was something open and 
entirely happy in their little chubby faces. The 
girls, on the contrary, have neither such fair, nor 
such even complexions, and their features are 
much less delicate, which is a circumstance different 
from that of almost every other country. Besides . 
this, it is observed that the women are generally 
afflicted with the itch, for which Scania is particu- 
larly remarkable. I had an instance of this in one 
of the inns on the road. The hostess was one of the 
most beautiful women I have ever seen ; she had so 
fine a complexion, that I could not avoid admiring 
it. But what was my surprise, when she opened 
her bosom in order to suckle her child, to perceive 
that seat of delight all covered with this disagree- 
able distemper. The careless manner in which she 
exposed to our eyes so disgusting an object, suffi- 
ciently testifies that they regard it as no very extra- 
ordinary malady, and seem to take no pains to con- 
ceal it. Such are the remarks, which probably you 
may think trifling enough, I have made in my jour- 
ney to Stockholm, which, to take it altogether, is a 
large, beautiful, and even a populous city. 

The arsenal appears to me one of its greatest 
curiosities; it is a handsome spacious building, 
mn% however, scantily supplied with the implements 
of war. To recompense this defect, they have al- 
most filled it with trophies, and other marks of their 
former military glory. I saw there several cham- 
bers filled with Danish, Saxon, Polish, and Russian 



CHARLES XII. 33 

standards. There was at least enough to suffice 
half a dozen armies ; but new standards are more 
easily made than new armies can be enlisted. I 
saw, besides, some very rich furniture, and some of 
the crown jewels of great value; but what princi- 
pally engaged my attention, and touched me with 
passing melancholy, were the bloody, yet precious 
spoils of the two greatest heroes the North ever 
produced. What I mean are the clothes in which 
the great Gustavus Adolphus, and the intrepid 
Charles XII. died, by a fate not unusual to kings. 
The first, if I remember, is a sort of a buff waist- 
coat, made antique fashion, very plain, and without 
the least ornaments ; the second, which was even 
more remarkable, consisted only of a coarse blue 
cloth coat, a large hat of less value, a shirt of coarse 
linen, large boots, and buff gloves made to cover a 
great part of the arm. His saddle, his pistols, and 
his sword, have nothing in them remarkable ; the 
meanest soldier was in this respect no way inferior 
to his gallant monarch. I shall use this opportunity 
to give you some particulars of the life of a man 
already so well known, which I had from persons 
who knew him when a child, and who now, by a 
- fate not unusual to courtiers, spend a life of poverty 
and retirement, and talk over in raptures all the 
actions of their old victorious king, companion, and 
master. 

Courage and inflexible constancy formed the 
basis of this monarch's character. In his tenderest 
years he gave instances of both. When he was yet 
scarcely seven years old, being at dinner with the 
queen his mother, intending to give a bit of bread 
to a great dog he was fond of, this hungry animal 

c2 



34 THE BEE. 

snapped too greedily at the morsel, and bit his hand 
in a terrible manner. The wound bled copiously, 
but our young hero, without offering to cry, or ta- 
king the least notice of his misfortune, endeavoured 
to conceal what had happened, lest his dog should 
be brought into trouble ; and wrapped his bloody 
hand in the napkin. The queen perceiving that he 
did not eat, asked him the reason. He contented 
himself with replying, that he thanked her, he was 
not hungry. They thought he was taken ill, and so 
repeated their solicitations. But all was in vain, 
though the poor child was already grown pale with 
the loss of blood. An officer who attended at table 
at last perceived it ; for Charles would sooner have 
died than betrayed his dog, who he knew intended 
no injury. 

At another time, when in the small-pox, and his 
case appeared dangerous, he grew one day very 
uneasy in his bed, and a gentleman who watched 
him, desirous of covering him up close, received 
from the patient a violent box on his ear. Some 
hours after observing the prince more calm, he en- 
treated to know how he had incurred his displea- 
sure, or what he had done to have merited a blow. 
" A blow !" replied Charles, " I don't remember any 
thing of it ; I remember, indeed, that I thought my- 
self in the battle of Arbela, fighting for Darius, 
where I gave Alexander a blow, which brought 
him to the ground." 

What great effects might not these two qualities 
of courage and constancy have produced, had 
they at first received a just direction. Charles, 
with proper instructions, thus naturally disposed, 
would have been the delight and the glory of his 



CHARLES XII. 35 

age. Happy those princes, who are educated by 
men who are at once virtuous and wise, and have 
been for some time in the school of affliction ; who 
weigh happiness against glory, and teach their 
royal pupils the real value of fame : who are ever 
showing the superior dignity of man to that of roy- 
alty ; that a peasant who does his duty is a nobler 
character than a king of even middling reputation. 
Happy, I say, were princes, could such men be 
found to instruct them ; but those to whom such an 
education is generally intrusted, are men who them- 
selves have acted in a sphere too high to know man- 
kind. Puffed up themselves with the ideas of false 
grandeur, and measuring merit by adventitious 
circumstances of greatness, they generally commu- 
nicate those fatal prejudices to their pupils, con- 
firm their pride by adulation, or increase their igno- 
rance by teaching them to despise that wisdom 
which is found among the poor. 

But not to moralize when I only intend a story ; 
what is related of the journeys of this prince is no 
less astonishing. He has sometimes been on horse- 
back for four and twenty hours successively, and 
thus traversed the greatest part of his kingdom. At 
last none of his officers were found capable of fol- 
lowing him ; he thus consequently rode the greatest 
part of his journeys quite alone, without taking a 
moment's repose, and without any other subsistence 
but a bit of bread. In one of these rapid courses he 
underwent an adventure singular enough. Riding 
thus post one day, all alone, he had the misfortune 
to have his horse fall dead under him. This might 
have embarrassed an ordinary man, but it gave 
Charles no sort of uneasiness. Sure of finding 



36 THE BEE. 

another horse, but not equally so of meeting with a 
good saddle and pistols, he ungirds his horse, claps 
the whole equipage on his own baek~ and thus ac- 
coutred marches on to the next inn, which by good 
fortune was not far off. Entering the stable, he 
here found a horse entirely to his mind ; so, with- 
out further ceremony, he clapped on his saddle and 
housing with great composure, and was just going 
to mount, when the gentleman who owned the 
horse, was apprised of a stranger's going to steal his 
property out of the stable. Upon asking the king, 
whom he had never seen, bluntly, how he pre- 
sumed to meddle with his horse, Charles coolly re- 
plied, squeezing in his lips, which was his usual cus- 
tom, that he took the horse because he wanted 
one ; " for you see," continued he, " if I have none, 
I shall be obliged to carry the saddle myself.*' This 
answer did not seem at all satisfactory to the gentle- 
man, who instantly drew his sword. In this the king * 
was not much behind hand with him, and to it they 
were going, when the guards by this time came up, 
and testified that surprise which was natural to see 
arms in the hand of a subject against his king. 
Imagine whether the gentleman was less surprised 
than they at his unpremeditated disobedience. His 
astonishment, however, was soon dissipated by the 
king, who, taking him by the hand, assured him he 
was a brave fellow, and himself would take care he 
should be provided for. This promise was after- 
wards fulfilled, and I have been assured the king 
made him a captain. 



HAPPINESS DEPENDENT ON CONSTITUTION. 37 



HAPPINESS, 

IN A GREAT MEASURE, DEPENDENT ON CON- 
STITUTION. 

When I reflect on the unambitious retirement in 
which I passed the earlier part of my life in the 
country, I cannot avoid feeling some pain in 
thinking that those happy days are never to return. 
In that retreat all nature seemed capable of afford- 
ing pleasure; I then made no refinements on hap- 
piness, but could be pleased with the most awkward 
efforts of rustic mirth ; thought cross-purposes the 
highest stretch of human wit, and questions and 
commands the most rational amusement for spend- 
ing the evening. Happy could so charming an illu- 
sion still continue ! I find age and knowledge 
only contribute to sour our dispositions. My pre- 
sent enjoyments may be more refined, but they are 
infinitely less pleasing. The pleasure Garrick 
gives can no way compare to that I have received 
from a country wag, who imitated a quaker's ser- 
mon. The music of Matei is dissonance to what I 
felt when our old dairy-maid sung me into tears 
with Johnny Armstrong's Last Good Night, or the 
cruelty of Barbara Allen. 

Writers of every age have endeavoured to show 
that pleasure is in us, and not in the objects offered 
for our amusement. If the soul be happily dis- 
posed, every thing becomes a subject of entertain- 
ment, and distress will almost want a name. Every 
occurrence passes in review like the figures of a 
procession ; some may be awkward, others ill- 






38 THE BEE. 

dressed; but none but a fool is for this enraged 
with the master of the ceremonies. 

I remember to have once seen a slave in a forti- 
fication in Flanders, who appeared no way touched 
with his situation. He was maimed, deformed, and 
chained; obliged to toil from the appearance of 
day till night-fall, and condemned to this for life ; . 
yet, with all these circumstances of apparent 
wretchedness, he sung, would have danced, but 
that he wanted a leg, and appeared the merriest, 
happiest man of all the garrison. What a practi- 
cal philosopher was here ! a happy constitution 
supplied philosophy, and though seemingly destitute 
of wisdom, he was really wise. No reading or 
study had contributed to disenchant the fairy land 
around him. Every thing furnished him with an 
opportunity of mirth ; and though some thought 
him from his insensibility a fool, he was such 
an idiot as philosophers might wish in vain to 
imitate. 

They, who like him, can place themselves on 
that side of the world in which every thing 
appears in a ridiculous or pleasing light, will find 
something in every occurrence to excite their good 
humour. The most calamitous events, either to 
themselves or others, can bring no new affliction ; 
the whole world is to them a theatre, on which co- 
medies only are acted. All the bustle of heroism, 
or the rants of ambition, serve only to heighten the 
absurdity of the scene, and make the humour more 
poignant. They feel, in short, as little anguish at 
their own distress, or the complaints of others, as 
the undertaker, though dressed in black, feels sor- 
row at a funeral. 



HAPPINESS DEPENDENT ON CONSTITUTION. 39 

Of all the men I ever read of, the famous Cardi- 
nal De Retz possessed this happiness of temper in 
the highest degree. As he was a man of gallantry, 
and despised all that wore the pedantic appearance 
of philosophy, wherever pleasure was to be sold, he 
was generally foremost to raise the auction. Being 
an universal admirer of the fair sex, when he 
found one lady cruel, he generally fell in love with 
another, from whom he expected a more favourable 
reception : if she too rejected his addresses, he 
never thought of retiring into deserts, or pining 
in hopeless distress. He persuaded himself, that in- 
stead of loving the lady, he only fancied he had 
loved her, and so all was well again. When For- 
tune wore her angriest look, when he at last fell 
into the power of his most deadly enemy, Cardinal 
Mazarine, and was confined a close prisoner in the 
castle of Valenciennes, he never attempted to sup- 
port his distress by wisdom or philosophy, for he 
pretended to neither. He laughed at himself and 
his persecutor, and seemed infinitely pleased at his 
new situation. In this mansion of distress, though 
secluded from his friends, though denied all the 
amusements, and even the conveniences of life, 
teased every hour by the impertinence of wretches 
who were employed to guard him, he still retained 
his good humour, laughed at all their little spite, and 
carried the jest so far, as to be revenged, by writing 
the life of his jailer. 

All that philosophy can teach, is to be stubborn 
or sullen under misfortunes. The Cardinal's exam- 
ple will instruct us to be merry in circumstances of 
the highest affliction. It matters not whether our 
good humour be construed by others into insensibi- 



40 THE BEE. 

lity, or even idiotism ; it is happiness to ourselves, 
and none but a fool would measure his satisfaction 
by what the world thinks of it. 

Dick Wildgoose was one of the happiest silly 
fellows I ever knew. He was of the number of 
those good-natured creatures that are said to do no 
harm to any but themselves. Whenever Dick fell 
into any misery, he usually called it seeing life. 
If his head was broke by a chairman, or his pocket 
picked by a sharper, he comforted himself by 
imitating the Hibernian dialect of the one, or the 
more fashionable cant of the other. Nothing came 
amiss to Dick. His inattention to money matters 
had incensed his father to such a degree, that all the 
intercession of friends in his favour was fruitless. 
The old gentleman was on his death-bed. The 
whole family, and Dick among the number, 
gathered round him. " I leave my second son, An- 
drew," said the expiring miser, " my whole estate, 
and desire him to be frugal." Andrew, in a sorrow- 
ful tone, as is usual on these occasions, prayed 
heaven to prolong his life and health to enjoy it 
himself. " I recommend Simon, my third son, to 
the care of his elder brother, and leave him beside 
four thousand pounds." " Ah ! father," cried Simon, 
(in great affliction to be sure) " May heaven give you 
life and health to enjoy it yourself!" At last, turn- 
ing to poor Dick; (< As for you, you have always 
been a sad dog, you'll never come to good, you'll 
never be rich ; I'll leave you a shilling to buy a 
halter." — " Ah ! father," cries Dick, without any 
emotion, " May heaven give you life and health to 
enjoy it yourself!'' This was all the trouble the loss 
of fortune gave this thoughtless imprudent crea- 



ON OUR THEATRES. 41 

ture. However, the tenderness of an uncle recom- 
pensed the neglect of a father; and Dick is not 
only excessively good-humoured, but competently 
rich. 

The world, in short, may cry out at a bankrupt 
who appears at a ball ; at an author who laughs at 
the public which pronounces him a dunce ; at a 
general who smiles at the reproach of the vulgar, or 
the lady who keeps her good-humour in spite of 
scandal ; but such is the wisest behaviour they can 
possibly assume ; it is certainly a better way to op- 
pose calamity by dissipation, than to take up the 
arms of reason or resolution to oppose it ; by the 
first method we forget our miseries, by the last we 
only conceal them from others ; by struggling with 
misfortunes, we are sure to receive some wounds in 
the conflict. The only method to come off victo- 
rious, is by running away. 



ON 

OUR THEATRES. 

Mademoiselle Clairon, a celebrated actress at 
Paris, seems to me the most perfect female figure 
I. have ever seen upon any stage. Not, perhaps, 
that nature has been more liberal of personal 
beauty to her, than some to be seen upon our 
theatres at home. There are actresses here who 
have as much of what connoisseurs call statuary 
grace, by which is meant elegance unconnected 
with motion, as she; but they all fall infinitely 



42 THE BEE. 

short of her, when the soul comes to give expres- 
sion to the limbs, and animates every feature. 

Her first appearance is excessively engaging ; she 
never comes in staring round tipon the company, as 
if she intended to count the benefits of the house, 
or at least to see, as well as be seen. Her eyes are 
always, at first, intently fixed upon the persons of 
the drama, and she lifts them by degrees, with en- 
chanting diffidence, upon the spectators. Her first 
speech, or at least the first part of it, is delivered 
with scarcely any motion of the arm ; her hands 
and her tongue never set out together; but the one 
prepares us for the other. She sometimes begins 
with a mute eloquent attitude ; but never goes for- 
ward all at once with hands, eyes, head, and voice. 
This observation, though it may appear of no im- 
portance, should certainly be adverted to ; nor do 
I see any one performer (Garrick only excepted) 
among us, that is not in this particular apt to 
offend. By this simple beginning she gives herself 
a power of rising in the passion of the scene. As 
she proceeds, every gesture, every look acquires 
new violence, till at last, transported, she fills the 
whole vehemence of the part, and all the idea of 
the poet. 

Her hands are not alternately stretched out, and 
then drawn in again, as with the singing women at 
Sadler's Wells ; they are employed with graceful 
variety, and every moment please with new and un- 
expected eloquence. Add to this, that their motion 
is generally from the shoulder - } she never flourishes 
her hands while the upper part of her arm is mo- 
tionless, nor has she the ridiculous appearance, as 
if her elbows were pinned to her hips. 



ON OUR THEATRES. 43 

But of all the cautions to be given to our rising 
actresses, I would particularly recommend it to 
them never to take notice of the audience, upon 
any occasion whatsoever; let the spectators ap- 
plaud never so loudly, their praises should pass, 
except at the end of the epilogue, with seeming in- 
attention. I can never pardon a lady on the stage, 
who, when she draws the admiration of the whole 
audience, turns about to make them a low courtesy 
for their applause. Such a figure no longer conti- 
nues Belvidera, but at once drops into Mrs. Cibber. 
Suppose a sober tradesman, who once a year takes 
his shilling's worth at ])rury-lane, in order to be 
delighted with the figure of a queen, the queen of 
Sheba for instance, or any other queen : this honest 
man has no other idea of the great but from their 
superior pride and impertinence ; suppose such a 
man placed among the spectators, the first figure 
that appears on the stage is the queen herself, 
courtesying and cringing to all the company ; how 
can he fancy her the haughty favourite of king 
Solomon the wise, who appears actually more sub- 
missive than the wife of his bosom. We are all 
tradesmen of a nicer relish in this respect, and 
such conduct must disgust every spectator who 
loves to have the illusion of nature strong upon 
him. 

Yet, while I recommend to our actresses a skilful 
attention to gesture, I would not have them study 
it in the looking-glass. This, without some precau- 
tion, will render their action formal ; by too great 
an intimacy with this they become stiff" and af- 
fected. People seldom improve, when they have 
no other m del but themselves to copy after. I 



44 THE BEE. 

remember to have known a notable performer, of 
the other sex, who made great use of this flattering 
monitor, and yet was one of the stiffest figures I 
ever saw. I am told his apartment was hung round* 
with looking-glass, that he might see his person 
twenty times reflected upon entering the room ; and 
I will make bold to say, he saw twenty very ugly 
fellows whenever he did so. 



No. 3. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 20, 1759. 



ON THE USE OF LANGUAGE. 

The manner in- which most writers begin their 
treatises on the use of language is generally thus : " 
4 ' Language has been granted to man, in order to 
discover his wants and necessities, so as to have 
them relieved by society. Whatever we desire, 
whatever we wish, it is but to clothe those desires 
or wishes in words, in order to fruition ; the prin- 
cipal use of language, therefore/' say they, " is to 
express our wants, so as to receive a speedy re- 
dress." 

Such an account as this may serve to satisfy 
grammarians and rhetoricians well enough, but 
men who know the world maintain very contrary 
maxims ; they hold, and I think with some show of 
reason, that he who best knows how to conceal his 
necessities and desires, is the most likely person to 
find redress, and that the true use of speech is 
not so much to express our wants as to conceal 
them. 




ON THE USE OF LANGUAGE. 45 

When we reflect on the manner in which man- 
kind generally confer their favours, we shall find 
that they who seem to want them least, are the 
very persons who most liberally share them. There 
Retiring so attractive in riches, that the large 
generally collects from the smaller ; and the 
as much pleasure in increasing the enor- 
iss, as the miser, who owns it, sees happi- 
its increase. Nor is there in this any thing 
repugnant to the laws of true morality. Seneca 
himself allows, that in conferring benefits, the pre- 
sent should always be suited to the dignity of the 
receiver. Thus the rich receive large presents, and 
are thanked for accepting them. Men of middling 
stations are obliged to <be content with presents 
something less; while the beggar, who may be 
truly said to want indeed, is well paid if a farthing 
rewards his warmest solicitations. 

Every man who has seen the world, and has had 
his ups and downs in life, as the expression is, must 
have frequently experienced the truth of this doc- 
trine, and must know that to have much, or to 
seem to have it, is the only way to have more. 
Ovid finely compares a man of broken fortune to a 
falling column ; the lower it sinks, the greater 
weight it is obliged to sustain. Thus, when a man 
has no occasion to borrow, he finds numbers willing 
to lend him. Should he ask his friend to lend him 
a hundred pounds, it is possible, from the large- 
ness of his demand, he may find credit for twenty; 
but should he humbly only sue for a trifle, it is two 
to one whether he might be trusted for two pence. 
A certain young fellow at George's whenever he 
had occasion to ask his friend for a guinea, used to 



46 THE BEE. 

prelude his request as if he wanted two hundred, 
and talked so familiarly of large sums, that none 
could ever think he wanted a small one. The same 
gentleman, whenever he wanted credit for a new 
suit from his tailor, always made a proposal in 
laced clothes ; for he found by experience, that if 
he appeared shabby on these occasions, Mr. Lynch 
had taken an oath against trusting ; or what was 
every bit as bad, his foreman was out of the way, 
and would not be at home these two days. 

There can be no inducement to reveal our wants, 
except to find pity, and by this means relief ; but 
before a poor man opens his mind in such circum- 
stances, he should first consider whether he is con- 
tented to lose the esteem of the person he solicits, 
and whether he is willing to give up friendship only 
to excite compassion. Pity and friendship are pas- 
sions incompatible with each other, and it is im- 
possible that both can reside in any breast for the 
smallest space, without impairing each other. 
Friendship is made up of esteem and pleasure ; 
pity is composed of sorrow and contempt ; the mind 
may for some time fluctuate between them, but it 
never can entertain both together. 

Yet let it not be thought that I would exclude 
pity from the human mind. There is scarcely any 
who are not in some degree possessed of this plea- 
sing softness ; but it is at best but a short-lived pas- 
sion, and seldom affords distress more than transi- 
tory assistance : with some it scarcely lasts from the 
first impulse till the hand can be put into the 
pocket ; with others it may continue for twice that 
space ; and on some extraordinary sensibility I have 
seen it operate for half an hour. But however, 



ON THE USE OF LANGUAGE. 47 

last as it will, it generally produces but beggarly 
effects ; and where from this motive we give a 
halfpenny, from others we give always pounds. In 
great distress we sometimes, it is true, feel the in- 
fluence of tenderness strongly ; when the same dis- 
tress solicits a second time, we then feel with dimi- 
nished sensibility, but like the repetition of an 
echo, every new impulse becomes weaker, till at 
last our sensations lose every mixture of sorrow, 
and degenerate into downright contempt. 

Jack Spindle and I were old acquaintance ; but 
he's gone. Jack was bread in a counting-house, 
and his father dying just as he was out of his time, 
left him a handsome fortune, and many friends to 
advise with. The restraint in which he had been 
brought up had thrown a gloom upon his temper, 
which some regarded as an habitual prudence, and 
from such considerations he had every day repeated 
offers of friendship. Those who had money were 
ready to offer him their assistance that way ; and 
they who had daughters, frequently, in the warmth 
of affection, advised him to marry. Jack, however, 
was in good circumstances ; he wanted neither 
money, friends, nor a wife, and therefore modestly 
declined their proposals. 

Some errors in the management of his affairs, 
and several losses in trade, soon brought Jack to a 
different way of thinking ; and he at last thought 
it his best way to let his friends know that their 
» offers were at length acceptable. His first address 
was therefore to a scrivener, who had formerly 
made him frequent offers of money and friendship, 
at a time when, perhaps, he knew those offers 
would have been refused. 



48 THE BEE. 

Jack, therefore, thought he might use his old 
friend without any ceremony, and as a man confi- 
dent of not being refused, requested the use of a 
hundred guineas for a few days, as he just then had 
an occasion for money. " And pray, Mr. Spindle," 
replied the scrivener, " do you want all this mo- 
ney ?" " Want it, sir ?" says the other, " if I did 
not want it, I should not have asked it." " I am I 
sorry for that," says the friend; " for those who 
want money when they come to borrow will want 
money when they should come to pay. To say the ] 
truth, Mr. Spindle, money is money now-a-days. 
I believe it is all sunk in the bottom of the sea, for ,] 
my part ; and he that has got a little, is a fool if he 
does not keep what he has got." 

Not quite disconcerted by this refusal, our ad- ; 
venturer was resolved to apply to another, whom 
lie knew to be the very best friend he had in the 
world. The gentleman whom he now addressed 
received his proposal with all the affability that i 
could be expected from generous friendship : " Let 
me see, you want a hundred guineas*; and pray, 
dear Jack, would not fifty answer ?" " If you have 
but fifty to spare, sir, I must be contented." " Fifty 
to spare ! I do not say that, for I believe I have but S 
twenty about me." " Then I must borrow the other 
thirty from some other friend" "And pray," re- 
plied the friend, " would it not be the best way to 
borrow the whole money from that other friend, 
and then one note will serve for all, you know ? 
Lord, Mr. Spindle, make no ceremony with me at 
any time; you know I'm your friend, when you 
choose a bit of dinner or so. — You, Tom, see 
the gentleman down. You won't forget to dine 



ON THE USE OF LANGUAGE. 49 

with us now and then. Your very humble ser- 
vant/' 

Distressed, but not discouraged at this treatment, 
he was at last resolved to find that assistance from 
love, which he could not have from friendship. 
Miss Jenny Dismal had a fortune in her own hands, 
and she had already made all the advances that 
her sex's modesty would permit. He made his 
proposal therefore with confidence, but soon per- 
ceived, "no bankrupt ever found the fair one 
kind." Miss Jenny and Master Billy Galloon were 
lately fallen deeply in love with each other, and 
the whole neighbourhood thought it would soon be 
a match. 

Every day now began to strip Jack of his for- 
mer finery ; his clothes flew piece by piece to the 
pawnbroker's ; and he seemed at length equipped 
in the genuine mourning of antiquity. But still 
he thought himself secure from starving : the num- 
berless invitations he had received to dine, even 
after his losses, were yet unanswered ; he was 
therefore now resolved to accept of a dinner be- 
cause he wanted one; and in this manner he ac- 
tually lived among his friends a whole week with- 
out being openly affronted. The last place I saw 
poor Jack was at the Rev. Dr. Gosling's. He 
had, as he fancied, just nicked the time, for he 
came in as the cloth was laying. He took a chair 
without being desired, and talked for some time 
without being attended to. He assured the com- 
pany, that nothing procured so good an appetite as 
a walk to White-conduit-house, where he had 
been that morning. He looked at the table-cloth, 
and praised the figure of the damask, talked of a 



50 THE BEE. 

feast where he had been the day before, but that 
the venison was overdone. All this, however, pro- 
cured the poor creature no invitation, and he was 
not yet sufficiently hardened to stay without being 
asked; wherefore, finding the gentleman of the 
house insensible to all his fetches, he thought pro- 
per at last to retire, and mend his appetite by a 
walk in the Park. 

You then, O ye beggars of my acquaintance, 
whether in rags or lace ; whether in Kent-street or - 
the Mall ; whether at Smyrna or St. Giles's ; might 
I advise you as a friend, never seem in want of the 
favour which you solicit. Apply to every passion 
but pity for redress. You may find relief from 
vanity, from self-interest, or from avarice, but sel- 
dom from compassion. The very eloquence of a 
poor man is disgusting ; and that mouth which is 
opened even for flattery, is seldom expected to 
close without a petition. 

If then you would ward off the gripe of poverty, 
pretend to be a stranger to her, and she will at 
least use you with ceremony. Hear not my ad- 
vice, but that of Offellus. If you be caught dining 
upon a halfpenny porrenger of pease soup and pota- 
toes, praise the wholesomeness of your frugal 
repast. You may observe, that Dr. Cheyne has pre- 
scribed pease broth for the gravel ; hint that you 
are not one of those who are always making a god 
of your belly. If you are obliged to wear a flimsy 
stuff in the midst of winter, be the first to remark 
that stuffs are very much worn at Paris. If there 
be found some irreparable defects in any part of 
your equipage, which cannot be concealed by all 
the arts of sitting cross-legged, coaxing, or darning, 



HISTORY OF HYPASIA. 51 

say, that neither you nor Sampson Gideon were 
ever very fond of dress. Or if you be a philosopher, 
hint that Plato or Seneca are the tailors you choose 
to employ; assure the company that man ought to 
be content with a bare covering, since what now is 
so much the pride of some, was formerly our shame. 
Horace will give you a Latin sentence fit for the 
occasion : 

Toga defendere frigus, 

Quamvis crassa, queat. 

In short, however caught, do not give up, but 
ascribe to the frugality of your disposition what 
others might be apt to attribute to the narrowness 
of your circumstances, and appear rather to be a 
miser than a beggar. To be poor, and to seem 
poor, is a certain method never to rise. Pride in 
the great is hateful, in the wise it is ridiculous ; 
beggarly pride is the only sort of vanity I can 
excuse. 



THE HISTORY OF HYPASIA. 

Man, when secluded from society, is not a more 
solitary being than the woman who leaves the du- 
ties of her own sex to invade the privileges of ours. 
She seems, in such circumstances, like one in ba- 
nishment; she appears like a neutral being be- 
tween the sexes ; and though she may have the 
admiration of both, she finds true happiness from 
neither. 

Of all the ladies of antiquity, I have read of 
none who was ever more justly celebrated than 



52 THE BEE. 

the beautiful Hypasia, the daughter of Leon the 
philosopher. This most accomplished of women 
was born at Alexandria in the reign of Theodosius 
the younger. Nature was never more lavish of its 
gifts than it had been to her, endued as she was 
with the most exalted understanding, and the hap- 
piest turn to science. Education completed what 
nature had begun, and made her the prodigy, not 
only of her age, but the glory of her sex. 

From her father she learned geometry and astro- 
nomy ; she collected from the conversation and 
schools of the other philosophers, for which Alex- 
andria was at that time famous, the principles of 
the rest of the sciences. 

What cannot be conquered by natural penetration 
and a passion for study? The boundless know- 
ledge, which at that period of time was required 
to form the character of a philosopher, no way dis- 
couraged her ; she delivered herself up to the study 
of Aristotle and Plato, and soon not one in all 
Alexandria understood so perfectly as she, all the 
difficulties of these two philosophers. 

But not their systems alone, but those of every 
other sect were quite familiar to her ; and to this 
knowledge she added that of polite learning, and 
the art of oratory. All the learning which it was 
possible for the human mind to contain, being 
joined to a most enchanting eloquence, rendered this 
lady the wonder, not only of the populace, who 
easily admire, but of philosophers themselves, who 
are seldom fond of admiration. 

The city of Alexandria was every day crowded 
with strangers, who came from all parts of Greece 
and Asia to see and hear her. As for the charms 



HISTORY OF HYPASIA. 53 

of her person, they might not probably have been 
mentioned, did she not join to a beauty the most 
striking, a virtue that might repress the most as- 
suming; and though in the whole capital, famed 
for charms, there was not one who could equal her 
in beauty; though in a city, the resort of all the 
learning then existing in the world, there was not 
one who could equal her in knowledge ; yet, with 
such accomplishments, Hypasia was the most mo- 
dest of her sex. Her reputation for virtue was not 
less than her virtues ; and though in a city divided 
between two factions, though visited by the wits 
and the philosophers of the age, calumny never 
dared to suspect her morals or attempt her charac- 
ter. Both the Christians and the heathens who 
have transmitted her history and her misfortunes, 
have but one voice when they speak of her beauty, 
her knowledge, and her virtue. Nay, so much har- 
mony reigns in their accounts of this prodigy of 
perfection, that, in spite of the opposition of their 
faith, w T e should never have been able to judge of 
what religion was Hypasia, were we not informed, 
from other circumstances, that she was an hea- 
then. Providence had taken so much pains in 
forming her, that we are almost induced to com- 
plain of its not having endeavoured to make her 
a Christian ; but from this complaint we are de- 
terred by a thousand contrary observations ; which 
lead us to reverence its inscrutable mysteries. 

This great reputation, of which she so justly was 
possessed, was at last, however, the occasion of her 
ruin. 

The person who then possessed the patriarchate 
of Alexandria, was equally remarkable for his vio- 



54 THE BEE. 

lence, cruelty, and pride. Conducted by an ill- 
grounded zeal for the Christian religion, or perhaps 
desirous of augmenting his authority in the city, he 
had long meditated the banishment of the Jews. 
A difference arising between them and the Chris- 
tians with respect to some public games, seemed to 
him a proper juncture for putting his ambitious 
designs into execution. He found no difficulty in 
exciting the people, naturally disposed to revolt. 
The prefect, who at that time commanded the city, 
interposed on this occasion, and thought it just to 
put one of the chief creatures of the patriarch to 
the torture, in order to discover the first promoter 
of the conspiracy. The patriarch, enraged at the 
injustice he thought offered to his character and 
dignity, and piqued at the protection which was 
offered to the Jews, sent for the chiefs of the syna- 
gogue, and enjoined them to renounce their de- 
signs, upon pain of incurring his highest displea- 
sure. 

The Jews, far from fearing his menaces, excited 
new tumults, in which several citizens had the mis- 
fortune to fall. The patriarch could no longer 
contain ; at the head of a numerous body of Chris- 
tians, he flew to the synagogues, which he demo- 
lished, and drove the Jews from a city, of which 
they had been possessed since the times of Alex- 
ander the Great. It may be easily imagined that 
the prefect could not behold, without paiu, his ju- 
risdiction thus insulted, and the city deprived of a 
number of its most industrious inhabitants. 

The affair was therefore brought before the em- 
peror. The patriarch complained of the excesses of 
the Jews, and the prefect of the outrages of the 



HISTORY OF HYPASIA. 55 

patriarch. At this very juncture, five hundred 
monks of mount Nitria, imagining the life of their 
chief to be in danger, and that their religion was 
threatened in his fall, flew into the city with ungo- 
vernable rage, attacked the prefect in the streets, 
and, not content with loading him with reproaches, 
wounded him in several places. 

The citizens had by this time notice of the fury 
of the monks, they therefore assembled in a body, 
put the monks to flight, seized on him who had 
been found throwing a stone, and delivered him to 
the prefect, who caused him to be put to death 
without further delay. 

The patriarch immediately ordered the dead body, 
which had been exposed to view, to be taken down, 
procured for it all the pomps and rites of burial, 
and went even so far as himself to pronounce the 
funeral oration, in which he classed a seditious 
monk among the martyrs. This conduct was by no 
means generally approved of; the most moderate 
even among the Christians perceived and blamed his 
indiscretion ; but he was now too far advanced to 
retire. He had made several overtures towards a 
reconciliation with the prefect, which not succeed- 
ing, he bore all those an implacable hatred whom 
he imagined to have any hand in traversing his 
designs ; but Hypasia was particularly destined to 
ruin. She could not find pardon, as she was known 
to have a most refined friendship for the prefect ; 
wherefore the populace were incited against her, 
Peter, a reader of the principal church, one of 
those vile slaves by which men in power are too 
frequently attended, wretches ever ready to com- 
mit any crime which they hope may render them 



56 THE BEE. 

agreeable to their employer; this fellow, I say, 
attended by a crowd of villains, waited for Hypasia, 
as she was returning from a visit, at her own door, 
seized her as she was going in, and dragged her to 
one of the churches called Cesarea, where stripping 
her in a most inhuman manner, they exercised the 
most inhuman cruelties upon her, cut her into 
pieces, and burnt her remains to ashes. Such was 
the end of Hypasia, the glory of her own sex, and 
the astonishment of ours. 



ON JUSTICE AND GENEROSITY. 

Lysippus is a man whose greatness of soul the 
whole world admires. His generosity is such, that 
it prevents a demand, and saves the receiver the 
trouble and the confusion of a request. His libe- 
rality also does not oblige more by its greatness, 
than by his inimitable grace in giving. Sometimes 
he even distributes his bounties to strangers, and 
has been known to do good offices to those who pro- 
fessed themselves his enemies. All the world are 
unanimous in the praise of his generosity ; there is 
only one sort of people who complain of his con- 
duct. Lysippus does not pay his debts. 

It is no difficult matter to account for a conduct 
so seemingly incompatible with itself. There is 
greatness in being generous, and there is only sim- 
ple justice in satisfying his creditors. Generosity is 
the part of a soul raised above the vulgar. There 
is in it something of -what we admire in heroes, and 
praise with a degree of rapture. Justice, on the 
contrary, is a mere mechanic virtue, fit only for 



ON JUSTICE AND GENEROSITY. 57 

tradesmen, and what is practised by every broker 
in Change-alley. 

In paying his debts a man barely does his duty, 
and it is an action attended with no sort of glory. 
Should Lysippus satisfy his creditors, who would be 
at the pains of telling it to the world? Generosity 
is a virtue of a very different complexion. It is 
raised above duty, and from its elevation attracts 
the attention and the praises of us little mortals 
below. 

In this manner do men generally reason upon 
justice and generosity. The first is despised, though 
a virtue essential to the good of society ; and the 
other attracts our esteem, which too frequently pro- 
ceeds from an impetuosity of temper, rather di- 
rected by vanity than reason. Lysippus is told that 
his banker asks a debt of forty pounds, and that a 
distressed acquaintance petitions for the same sum. 
He gives it without hesitating to the latter ; for he 
demands as a favour what the former requires as a 
debt. 

Mankind in general are not sufficiently acquainted 
with the import of the word justice : it is commonly 
believed to consist only in a performance of those 
duties to which the laws of society can oblige us. 
This I allow is sometimes the import of the word, 
and in this sense 'justice is distinguished from 
equity ; but there is a justice still more extensive, 
and which can be shown to embrace all the virtues 
united. 

Justice may be defined to be that virtue which 
impels us to give to every person what is his due. 
In this extended sense of the word, it comprehends 
the practice of every virtue which reason prescribes, 

d 2 



58 THE BEE. 

or society should expect. Our duty to our Maker, 
to each other, and to ourselves, are fully answered, 
if we give them what we owe them. Thus justice, 
properly speaking, is the only virtue, and all the 
rest have their origin in it. 

The qualities of candour, fortitude, charity, and 
generosity, for instance, are not, in their own na- 
ture, virtues ; and, if ever they deserve the title, it 
is owing only to justice, which impels and directs 
them. Without such a moderator, candour might 
become indiscretion, fortitude obstinacy, charity 
imprudence, and generosity mistaken profusion. 

A disinterested action, if it be not conducted by 
justice, is at best indifferent in its nature, and not 
unfrequently even turns to vice. The expenses of 
society, of presents, of entertainments, and the 
other helps to cheerfulness, are actions merely 
indifferent, when not repugnant to a better method 
of disposing of our superfluities ; but they become 
vicious when they obstruct or exhaust our abili- 
ties from a more virtuous disposition of our cir- 
cumstances. 

True generosity is a duty as indispensably neces- 
sary as those imposed upon us by law. It is a rule 
imposed upon us by reason, which should be the 
sovereign law of a rational being. But this gene- 
rosity does not consist in obeying every impulse 
of humanity, in following blind passion for our 
guide, and impairing our circumstances by pre- 
sent benefactions, so as to render us incapable of 
future ones. 

Misers are generally characterised as men with- 
out honour, or without humanity, who live only to 
accumulate, and to this passion sacrifice every other 






ON JUSTICE AND GENEROSITY. 59 

happiness. They have been described as madmen, 
who, in the midst of abundance banish every plea- 
sure, and make, from imaginary wants, real neces- 
sities. But few, very few, correspond to this exag- 
gerated picture ; and, perhaps, there is not one in 
whom all these circumstances are found united. 
Instead of this, we find the sober and the indus- 
trious branded by the vain and the idle, with this 
odious appellation. Men who, by frugality and 
labour, raise themselves above their equals, and 
contribute their share of industry to the common 
stock. 

Whatever the vain or the ignorant may say, well 
were it for society had we more of this character 
amongst us. In general, these close men are found 
at last the true benefactors of society. With an 
avaricious man we seldom lose in our dealings, but 
too frequently in our commerce with prodigality. 

A French priest, whose name was Godinot, went 
for a long time by the name of the Griper. He re- 
fused to relieve the most apparent wretchedness, 
and by a skilful management of his vineyard, had 
the good fortune to acquire immense sums of mo- 
ney. The inhabitants of Rheims, who were his 
fellow-citizens, detested him, and the populace, 
who seldom love a miser, wherever he went, re- 
ceived him with contempt. He still, however, con- 
tinued his former simplicity of life, his amazing 
and unremitted frugality. This good man had long 
perceived the wants of the poor in the city, parti- 
cularly in having no water but what they were 
obliged to buy at an advanced price, wherefore that 
whole fortune, which he had been amassing, he 
laid out in an aqueduct, by which he did the poor 



60 THE BEE. 

more useful and lasting service, than if he had dis- 
tributed his whole income in charity every day at 
his door. 

Among men long conversant with books, we too 
frequently find those misplaced virtues, of which I 
have been now complaining. We find the studious 
animated with a strong passion for the great vir- 
tues, as they are mistakenly called, and utterly for- 
getful of the ordinary ones. The declamations of 
philosophy are generally rather exhausted on these 
supererogatory duties, than on such as are indis- 
pensably necessary. A man, therefore, who has 
taken his ideas of mankind from study alone, gene- 
rally comes into the world with a heart melting at 
every fictitious distress. Thus he is induced, by 
misplaced liberality, to put himself into the indigent 
circumstances of the person he relieves. 

I shall conclude this paper with the advice of one 
of the ancients to a young man whom he saw 
giving away all his substance to pretended distress. 
" It is possible, that the person you relieve may be 
an honest man ; and I know that you who relieve 
him are such. You see, then, by your generosity, 
you only rob a man, who is certainly deserving, to 
bestow it on one who may possibly be a rogue. 
And while you are unjust in rewarding uncertain 
merit, you are doubly guilty by stripping yourself.** 



FATHER FREIJO. 6*1 

SOME PARTICULARS RELATING TO 
FATHER FREIJO. 



Primus mortales tollere contra 
Est oculos ausus, primusque assurgere contra. 
> Lucr. 

The Spanish nation has, for many centuries past, 
been remarkable for the grossest ignorance in polite 
literature, especially in point of natural philosophy; 
a science so useful to mankind, that her neighbours 
have ever esteemed it a matter of the greatest im- 
portance, to endeavour, by repeated experiments, 
to strike a light out of the chaos in which truth 
seemed to be confounded. Their curiosity in this 
respect was so indifferent, that though they had dis- 
covered new worlds, they were at a loss to explain 
the phenomena of their own, and their pride so un- 
accountable, that they disdained to borrow from 
others that instruction, which their natural indo- 
lence permitted them not to acquire. 

It gives me, however, a secret satisfaction, to be- 
hold an extraordinary genius now existing in that 
nation, whose studious endeavours seem calculated 
to undeceive the superstitious and instruct the ig- 
norant : I mean the celebrated Padre Freijo. In 
unravelling the mysteries of nature, and explaining 
physical experiments, he takes an opportunity of 
displaying the concurrence of second causes in those 
very wonders, which the vulgar ascribe to super- 
natural influence. 



62 THE BEE. 

An example of this kind happened a few years 
ago in a small town of the kingdom of Valencia. 
Passing through at the hour of mass, he alighted 
from his mule, and proceeded to the parish church, 
which he found extremely crowded, and there ap- 
peared on the faces of the faithful a more than 
usual alacrity. The sun, it seems, which had been 
for some minutes under a cloud, had begun to shine 
on a large crucifix, that stood on the middle of the 
altar, studded with several precious stones. The 
reflection from these, and from the diamond eyes 
of some silver saints, so dazzled the multitude, that 
they unanimously cried out, a miracle ! a miracle I 
whilst the priest at the altar, with seeming conster- 
nation, continued his heavenly conversation. Padre 
Freijo soon dissipated^ the charm, by tying his hand- 
kerchief round the head of one of the statues, for 
which he was arraigned by the inquisition ; whose 
flames,, however, he has had the good fortune 
hitherto to escape. 



No. 4. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 27, 1759. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 

Were I to measure the merit of my present under- 
taking by its success, or the rapidity of its sale, I 
might be led to form conclusions by no means fa- 
vourable to the pride of an author. Should I esti- 
mate my fame by its extent, every newspaper and 



MISCELLANEOUS. 63 

magazine would leave me far behind. Their fame 
is diffused in a very wide circle, that of some as far 
as Islington, and some yet further still ; while mine, 
I sincerely believe, has hardly travelled beyond the 
sound of Bow bell ; and while the works of others 
fly like unpinioned swans, I find my own move as 
heavily as a new plucked goose, 

Still, however, I have as much pride as they who 
have ten times as many readers. It is impossible to 
repeat all the agreeable delusions, in which a dis- 
appointed author is apt to find comfort. I conclude, 
that what my reputation wants in extent, is made 
up by its solidity. Minus juvat gloria lata quam 
magna, I have great satisfaction in considering the 
delicacy and discernment of those readers I have, 
and in ascribing my want of popularity to the ig- 
norance or inattention of those I have not. All the 
world may forsake an author, but vanity will never 
forsake him. 

Yet notwithstanding so sincere a confession, I 
was once induced to show my indignation against 
the public, by discontinuing my endeavours to please, 
and was bravely resolved, like Raleigh, to vex them 
by burning my manuscript in a passion. Upon re- 
collection, however, I considered what set or body 
of people would be displeased at my rashness. The 
sun, after so sad an accident, might shine next 
morning as bright as usual; men might laugh 
and sing the next day, and transact business as 
before, and not a single creature feel any regret but 
myself. 

I reflected upon the story of a minister, who in 
the reign of Charles II. upon a certain occasion, re- 
signed all his posts, and retired into the country, in 



64 THE BEE. 

a fit of resentment. But as he had not given the 
world entirely up with his ambition, he sent a mes- 
senger to town to see how the courtiers would bear 
his resignation. Upon the messenger's return, he 
was asked whether there appeared any commotion 
at court ? To which he replied, " There were very 
great ones." " Ay," says the minister, " I knew 
my friends would make a bustle ; all petitioning the 
king for my restoration, I presume." " No, -sir," 
replied the messenger, " they are only petitioning 
his majesty to be put in your place." In the same 
manner, should I retire in indignation, instead of 
having Apollo in mourning, or the muses in a fit of 
the spleen ; instead of having the learned world 
apostrophising at my untimely decease, perhaps all 
Grub-street might laugh at my fall, and self-ap- 
proving dignity might never be able to shield me 
from ridicule. In short, I am resolved to write on, 
if it were only to spite them. If the present gene- 
ration will not hear my voice, hearken, O poste- 
rity ! to you I call, and from you I expect redress ! 
What rapture will it not give to have the Scaligers, 
Daciers, and Warburtons of future times comment- 
ing with admiration upon every line I now write, 
working away those ignorant creatures, who offer 
to arraign my merit, with all the virulence of 
learned reproach. Ay, my friends, let them feel 
it ; call names, never spare them ; they deserve it 
all, and ten times more. I have been told of a 
critic, who was crucified at the command of ano- 
ther to the reputation of Homer. That, no doubt, 
was more than poetical justice ; and I shall be per- 
fectly content, if those who criticise me are only 
clapped in the pillory, kept fifteen days upon bread 



MISCELLANEOUS. 65 

and water, and obliged to run the gantlope through 
Paternoster-row. The truth is, I can expect hap- 
piness from posterity either way. If I write ill, 
happy in being forgotten ; if well, happy in being 
remembered with respect. 

Yet considering things in a prudential light, per- 
haps I was mistaken in designing my paper as an 
agreeable relaxation to the studious, or a help to 
conversation among the gay ; instead of addressing 
it to such, I should have written down to the taste 
and apprehension of the many, and sought for repu- 
tation on the broad road. Literary fame 1 now find, 
like religious, generally begins among the vulgar. 
As for the polite, they are so very polite, as never 
to applaud upon any account. One of these, with 
a face screwed up into affectation, tells you, that 
fools may admire, but men of sense only approve. 
Thus, lest he should rise in rapture at any thing 
new, he keeps down every passion but pride and 
self-importance; approves with phlegm, and the 
poor author is damned in the taking a pinch of 
snuff. Another has written a book himself, and 
being condemned for a dunce, he turns a sort of 
king's evidence in criticism, and now becomes the 
terror of every offender. A third, possessed of full 
grown* reputation, shades off every beam of favour 
from those who endeavour to grow beneath him, 
and keeps down that merit, which, but for his in- 
fluence, might rise into equal eminence : while 
others, still worse, peruse old books for their amuse- 
ment, and new books only to condemn ; so that 
the public seem heartily sick of all but the business 
of the day, and read every thing now with as little 



66 THE BEE. 

attention as they examine the faces of the passing 
crowd. 

From these considerations I was once determined 
to throw off all connections with taste, and fairly 
address my countrymen in the same engaging style' 
and manner with other periodical pamphlets, much 
more in vogue than probably mine shall ever be. 
To effect this, I had thoughts of changing the title 
into that of the Royal Bee, the Antigallican Bee, 
or the Bee's Magazine. I had laid in a proper stock 
of popular topics, such as encomiums on the king 
of Prussia, invectives against the queen of Hungary 
and the French, the necessity of a militia, our un- 
doubted sovereignty of the seas, reflections upon 
the present state of affairs, a dissertation upon 
liberty, some seasonable thoughts upon the in- 
tended bridge of Blackfriars, and an address to 
Britons ; the history of an old woman, whose 
teeth grew three inches long, an ode upon our 
victories, a rebus, an acrostic upon Miss Peggy 
P. and a journal of the weather. All this, to- 
gether with four extraordinary pages of letter 
press, a beautiful map of England, and two 
prints curiously coloured from nature, I fancied 
might touch their very souls. I was actually be- 
ginning an address to the people, when my pride 
at last overcame my prudence, and determined me 
to endeavour to please by the goodness of my en- 
tertainment, rather than by the magnificence of my 
sign. 

The Spectator, and many succeeding essayists, 
frequently inform us of the numerous compliments 
paid them in the course of their lucubrations ; of the 



MISCELLANEOUS. 67 

frequent encouragements they met to inspire them 
with ardour, and increase their eagerness to please. 
I have received my letters as well as they ; hut 
alas ! not congratulatory ones ; not assuring me of 
success and favour; but pregnant with bodings 
that might shake even fortitude itself, 

One gentleman assures me, he intends to throw 
away no more three-pences in purchasing the Bee ; 
and what is still more dismal, he will not recom- 
mend me as a poor author wanting encouragement 
to his neighbourhood, which it seems is very nume- 
rous. Were my soul set upon three-pences, what 
anxiety might not such a denunciation produce ! 
But such does not happen to be the present motive 
of publication; I write partly to show my good- 
nature, and partly to show my vanity ; nor will I 
lay down the pen till I am satisfied one way or 
another. 

Others have disliked the title and the motto of 
my paper, point out a mistake in the one, and as- 
sure me the other has been consigned to dulness by 
anticipation. All this may be true; but what is 
that to me ? Titles and mottos to books are like 
escutcheons and dignities in the hands of a king. 
The wise sometimes condescend to accept of them ; 
but none but a fool would imagine them of any 
real importance. We ought to depend upon intrin- 
sic merit, and not the slender helps of the title. 
Nam quce nonfecimus ipsi, vix ea nostra voco. 

For my part, I am ever ready to mistrust a pro- 
mising title, and have, at some expense, been in- 
structed not to hearken to the voice of an advertise- 
ment, let it plead never so loudly, or never so long. 
A countryman coming one day to Smithfield, in 



68 THE BEE. 

order to take a slice of Bartholomew- fair, found i 
perfect show before every booth. The drumme 
the fire-eater, the wire-walker, and the salt-b 
were all employed to invite him in. " Just 
going ; the court of the king of Prussia in all ] 
glory; pray, gentlemen, walk in and see." 
people who generously gave so much away, til 
clown expected a monstrous bargain for his mone 
when he got in. He steps up, pays his sixpence, th 
curtain is drawn, when, too late, he finds that I 
had the best part of the show for nothing at th 
door. 



A FLEMISH TRADITION. 



Every country has its traditions, which either t 
minute, or not sufficiently authentic to receive hist< 
rical sanction, are handed down among the vulg 
and serve at once to instruct and amuse them, 
this number the adventures of Robin Hood, 
hunting of Chevy Chace, and the bravery 
Johnny Armstrong among the English ; of 
Dereg among the Irish ; and Creighton among 1 
Scots, are instances. Of all the traditions, howev 
I remember to have heard, I do not recollect ! 
more remarkable than one still current in 
ders ; a story generally the first the peasants 
their children, when they bid them behave HI 
Bidderman the Wise. It is by no means, howev 
a model to be set before a polite people for imit 
tion ; since if on the one hand we perceive in it t 
steady influence of patriotism $ we on the oth 



A FLEMISH TRADITION. 69 

find as strong a desire of revenge. But, to wave 
introduction, let us to the story. 

When the Saracens over- ran Europe with their 
armies, and penetrated as far even as Antwerp, 
Bidderman was lord of a city, which time has 
since swept into destruction. As the inhabitants of 
this country were divided under separate leaders, 
the Saracens found an easy conquest, and the city 
of Bidderman among the rest became a prey to 
the victors. 

Thus dispossessed of his paternal city, our unfor- 
tunate governor was obliged to seek refuge from the 
neighbouring princes, who were as yet unsubdued, 
and he for some time lived in a state of wretched 
dependence among them. 

Soon, however, his love to his native country 
brought him back to his own city, resolved to rescue 
it from the enemy, or fall in the attempt : thus, in 
disguise, he went among the inhabitants, and 
endeavoured, but in vain, to excite them to a 
revolt. Former misfortunes lay so heavily on their 
minds, that they rather chose to suffer the most 
cruel bondage, than attempt to vindicate their for- 
mer freedom. 

As he was thus one day employed, whether by 
information or from suspicion is not known, he 
was apprehended by a Saracen soldier as a spy, and 
brought before the very tribunal at which he once 
presided. The account he gave of himself was by 
no means satisfactory. He could produce no friends 
to vindicate his character ; wherefore, as the Sara- 
cens knew not their prisoner, and as they had no 
direct proofs against him, they were content with 



70 THE BEE. 

condemning him to be publicly whipped as a va- ? 
gabond. 

The execution of this sentence was accordingly 
performed with the utmost rigour. Bidderman was. 
bound to the post, the executioner seeming dis- 
posed to add to the cruelty of the sentence, as he I 
received no bribe for lenity. Whenever Bidder- 
man groaned under the scourge, the other, re- 1 
doubling his blows, cried out, "Does the villain 
murmur?" If Bidderman entreated but a mo- - 
ment's respite from torture, the other only re- j 
peated his former exclamation, " Does the villain * 
murmur?" 

From this period, revenge as well as patriotis J 
took entire possession of his soul. His fury stooped ; 
so low as to follow the executioner with unremitting 
resentment. But conceiving that the best method j 
to attain these ends, was to acquire some eminence 
in the city, he laid himself out to oblige its new 
masters, studied every art, and practised every 
meanness that serve to promote the needy, or 
render the poor pleasing; and, by these means, in a 
few years he came to be of some note in the city, 
which justly belonged entirely to him. 

The executioner was therefore the first object of] 
his resentment, and he even practised the lowest 
fraud to gratify the revenge he owed him. A 
piece of plate, which Bidderman had previously 
stolen from the Saracen governor, he privately con- 
veyed into the executioner's house, and then gave 
information of the theft. They, who are any way 
acquainted with the rigour of the Arabian laws, 
know that theft is punished with immediate death. 



A FLEMISH TRADITION. 71 

The proof was direct in this case ; the executioner 
had nothing to offer in his own defence, and he was 
therefore condemned to be beheaded upon a 
scaffold in the public market place. As there 
was no executioner in the city but the very man 
who was now to suffer, Bidderman himself under- 
took this, to him most agreeable office. The cri- 
minal was conducted from the judgment-seat bound 
with cords. The scaffold was erected, and he 
placed in such a manner, as he might lie most con- 
venient for the blow. 

But his death alone was not sufficient to satisfy 
the resentment of this extraordinary man, unless it 
was aggravated with every circumstance of cruelty. 
Wherefore, coining up the scaffold, and disposing 
every thing in readiness for the intended blow, with 
the sword in his hand he approached the criminal, 
and whispering in a low voice, assured him that he 
himself was the person that had once been used 
with so much cruelty ; that to his knowledge he 
died very innocently, for the plate had been stolen 
by himself, and privately conveyed into the house 
of the other. 

" O, my coantrymen," cried the criminal, " do 
you hear what this man says ?" — " Does the villain 
murmur ?" replied Bidderman, and immediately at 
one blow severed his head from his body. 

Still, however, he was not content till he had 
ample vengeance of the governors of the city, who 
condemned him. To effect this, he hired a small 
house adjoining to the town wall, under which he 
every day dug, and carried out the earth in a 
basket. In this unremitting labour he continued 
several years, every day digging a little, and carrying 



72 THE BEE. 

the earth unsuspected away. By this means Ik 
at last made a secret communication from the 
country into the city, and only wanted the ap- 
pearance of an enemy, in order to betray it. This 
opportunity at length offered ; the French army 
came into the neighbourhood, but had no thoughts 
of sitting down before a town which they consi- 
dered as impregnable. Bidderman, however, soon 
altered their resolutions, and, upon communicating 
his plan to the general, he embraced it with ardour. 
Through the private passage above-mentioned, he 
introduced a large body of the most resolute soldiers, 
who soon opened the gates for the rest, and the 
whole army rushing in, put every Saracen that was 
found to the sword. 



. 



THE SAGACITY OF SOME INSECTS. 
to the author of the bee. 

Sir, 
Animals in general are sagacious in proportion 
as they cultivate society. The elpphant and the 
beaver show the greatest signs of this when united ; 
hut when man intrudes into their communities, they 
lose all their spirit of industry, and testify but a j 
very small share of that sagacity, for which, when j 
in a social state, they are so remarkable. ■ 

Among insects, the labours of the bee and the I 
ant have employed the attention and admiration of ] 
the naturalist ; but their whole sagacity is lost upon 
separation, and a single bee or ant seems destitute 
of every degree of industry, is the most stupid in- | 



SAGACITY OF SOME INSECTS. 73 

sect imaginable, languishes for a time in solitude, 
and soon dies. 

Of all the solitary insects I have ever remarked, 
the spider is the most sagacious, and its actions, to 
me, who have attentively considered them, seem al- 
most to exceed belief. This insect is formed by 
nature for a state of war, not only upon other in- 
sects, but upon each other. For this state nature 
seems perfectly well to have formed it. Its head 
and breast are covered with a strong natural coat of 
mail, which is impenetrable to the attempts of 
every other insect, and its belly is enveloped in a 
soft pliant skin, which eludes the sting even of a 
wasp. Its legs are terminated by strong claws, 
not unlike those of a lobster, and their vast length, 
like spears, serve to keep every assailant at a di- 
stance. 

Not worse furnished for observation than for an 
attack or a defence, it has several eyes, large, trans- 
parent, and covered with a horny substance, which, 
however, does not impede its vision. Besides this, 
it is furnished with a forceps above the mouth, 
which serves to kill or secure the prey already 
caught in its claws or its net. 

Such are the implements of war with which the 
body is immediately furnished ; but its net to en- 
tangle the enemy seems what it chiefly trusts to, 
and what it takes most pains to render as com- 
plete as possible. Nature has furnished the body 
of this little creature with a glutinous liquid, which 
proceeding from the anus, it spins into thread 
coarser or finer, as it chooses to contract or dilate 
its sphincter. In order to fix its thread when it 
begins to weave, it emits a small drop of its liquid 

E 



74 THE BEE. 

against the wall, which, hardening by degrees, serves 
to hold the thread very firmly. Then receding 
from the first point, as it recedes the thread 
lengthens ; and when the spider has come to the 
place where the other end of the thread should be 
fixed, gathering up with his claws the thread 
which would otherwise be too slack, it is stretched 
tightly, and fixed in the same manner to the wall as 
before. 

In this manner it spins and fixes several threads 
parallel to each other, which, so to speak, serve as 
the warp to the intended web. To form the woof, 
it spins in the same manner its thread, transversely, 
fixing one end to the first thread that was spun, and 
which is always the strongest of the whole web, and 
the other to the wall. All these threads, being 
newly spun, are glutinous, and therefore stick to 
each other wherever they happen to touch, and in 
those parts of the web most exposed to be torn, our 
natural artist strengthens them by doubling the 
threads sometimes six-fold. 

Thus far naturalists have gone in the description 
of this animal ; what follows is the result of my 
own observations upon that species of the insect 
called a house-spider. I perceived, about four 
years ago, a large spider in one corner of my room, 
making its web, and though the maid frequently le- 
velled her fatal broom against the labours of the 
little animal, I had the good fortune then to pre- 
vent its destruction, and I may say, it more than 
paid me by the entertainment it afforded. 

In three days the web was with incredible dili- 
gence completed ; nor could I avoid thinking that 
the insect seemed to exult in its new abode. It fre- 



SAGACITY OF SOME INSECTS. ?5 

quently traversed it round, examined the strength 
of every part of it, retired into its hole, and came 
out very frequently. The first enemy, however, it 
had to encounter, was another and a much larger 
spider, which, having no web of its own, and 
having probably exhausted all its stock in former 
labours of this kind, came to invade the property of 
its neighbour. Soon then a terrible encounter 
ensued, in which the invader seemed to have the 
victory, and the laborious spider was obliged to 
take refuge in his hole. Upon this I perceived the 
victor using every art to draw the enemy from his 
strong hold. He seemed to go off, but quickly re- 
turned, and when he found all arts vain, began to 
demolish the new web without mercy. This brought 
on another battle, and, contrary to my expectations, 
the laborious spider became conqueror, and fairly 
killed his antagonist. 

Now then, in peaceable possession of what was 
justly its own, it waited three days with the utmost 
impatience, repairing the breaches of its web, and 
taking no sustenance that I could perceive. At last, 
however, a large blue fly fell into the snare, and 
struggled hard to get loose. The spider gave it 
leave to entangle itself as much as possible, but it 
seemed to be too strong for the cobweb. I must 
own I was greatly surprised when I saw the spider 
immediately sally out, and in less than a minute 
weave a new net around its captive, by which the 
motion of its wings was stopped, and when it was 
fairly hampered in this manner, it was seized, and 
dragged into the hole. 

In this manner it lived, in a precarious state, and 
nature seemed to have fitted it for such a life, for 



76 THE BEE. 

upon a single fly it subsisted for more than a week; 
I once put a wasp into the nest, but when the 
spider came out in order to seize it as usual, upon 
perceiving what kind of an enemy it had to deal 
with, it instantly broke all the bands that held it 
fast, and contributed all that lay in its power to 
disengage so formidable an antagonist. When the 
wasp was at liberty, I expected the spider would 
have set about repairing the breaches that were 
made in its net, but those it seems were irreparable, 
wherefore the cobweb was now entirely forsaken, 
and a new one begun, which was completed in the 
usual time. 

I had now a mind to try how many cobwebs a 
single spider could furnish, wherefore I destroyed 
this, and the insect set about another. When I de- 
stroyed the other also, its whole stock seemed en- 
tirely exhausted, and it could spin no more. The 
arts it made use of to support itself, now deprived 
of its great means of subsistence, were indeed sur- 
prising. I have seen it roll up its legs like a ball, 
and lie motionless for hours together, but cautiously 
watching all the time ; when a fly happened to ap- 
proach sufficiently near, it would dart out all at 
once, and often seize its prey. 

Of this life, however, it soon began to grow 
weary, and resolved to invade the possession of 
some other spider, since it could not make a web of 
its own. It formed an attack upon a neighbouring 
fortification with great vigour, and at first was as 
vigorously repulsed. Not daunted, however, with 
one defeat, in this manner it continued to lay siege 
to another's web for three days, and at length, 
having killed the defendant, actually took posses- 






SAGACITY OF SOME INSECTS. 77 

sion. When smaller flies happen to fall into the 
snare, the spider does not sally out at once, but very 
patiently waits till it is sure of them ; for, upon his 
immediately approaching, the terror of his appear- 
ance might give the captive strength sufficient to get 
loose : the manner then is to wait patiently till, by 
ineffectual and impotent struggles, the captive has 
wasted all its strength, and then he becomes a cer- 
tain and easy conquest. 

The insect I am now describing lived three years ; 
every year it changed its skin, and got a new set of 
legs. I have sometimes plucked off a leg, which 
grew again in two or three days. At first it dreaded 
my approach to its web ; but at last it became so 
familiar, as to take a fly out of my hand ; and 
upon my touching any part of the web, would im- 
mediately leave its hole, propared either for a de- 
fence or an attack. 

To complete this description, it may be observed, 
that the male spiders are much less than the female, 
and that the latter are oviparous. When they come 
to lay, they spread a part of their web under the 
eggs, and then roll them up carefully, as we roll up 
things in a cloth, and thus hatch them in their hole. 
If disturbed in their holes, they never attempt to 
escape without carrying this young brood in their 
forceps away with them, and thus frequently are 
sacrificed to their maternal affection. 

As soon as ever the young ones leave their artifi- 
cial covering, they begin to spin, and almost sen-* 
sibly seem to grow bigger. If they have the good 
fortune, when even but a day old, to catch a fly, 
they fall to with good appetites; but they live 
sometimes three or four days without any sort of 



78 THE BEE. 

sustenance, and yet still continue to grow larger, so 
as every day to double their former size. As they 
grow old, however, they do not still continue to in- 
crease, but their legs only continue to grow longer ; 
and when a spider becomes entirely stiff with age, 
and unable to seize its prey, it dies at length of 
hunger. 



THE 

CHARACTERISTICS OF GREATNESS. 

In every duty, in every science in which we would 
wish to arrive at perfection, we should propose for 
the object of our pursuit some certain station even 
beyond our abilities : some imaginary excellence, 
w r hich may amuse and serve to animate our inquiry. 
In deviating from others, in following an unbeaten 
road, though we perhaps may never arrive at the 
wished- for object ; yet it is possible we may meet 
several discoveries by the way ; and the certainty of 
small advantages, even while we travel with secu- 
rity, is not so amusing as the hopes of great rewards, 
which inspire the adventurer. Evenit nonnunquam 
says Quintilian, ut a liquid grande inveniat qui semper 
qucerit quod nimium est. 

This enterprising spirit is, however, by no means 
the character of the present age ; every person who 
should now leave received opinions, who should 
attempt to be more than a commentator upon phi- 
losophy, or an imitator in polite learning, might 
be regarded as a chimerical projector. Hundreds 
would be ready not only to point out his errors, but 



THE CHARACTERISTICS OF GREATNESS. 79 

to load him with reproach. Our probable opinions 
are now regarded as certainties ; the difficulties hi- 
therto undiscovered as utterly inscrutable ; and the 
writers of the last age inimitable, and therefore 
the properest models of imitation. 

One might be almost induced to deplore the phi- 
losophic spirit of the age, which in proportion as it 
enlightens the mind, increases its timidity, and re- 
presses the vigour of every undertaking. Men are 
now content with being prudently in the right; 
which, though not the way to make new acquisi- 
tions, it must be owned, is the best method of se- 
curing what we have. Yet this is certain, that the 
writer who never deviates, who never hazards a 
new thought, or a new expression, though his friends 
may compliment him upon his sagacity, though cri- 
ticism lifts her feeble voice in his praise, will sel- 
dom arrive at any degree of perfection. The way 
to acquire lasting esteem, is not by the fewness of 
a writer's faults, but the greatness of his beauties, 
and our noblest works are generally most replete 
with both. 

An author, who would be sublime, often runs his 
thought into burlesque ; yet I can readily pardon 
his mistaking ten times for once succeeding. True 
genius walks along a line, and perhaps our greatest 
pleasure is in seeing it so often near falling, without 
being ever actually down. 

Every science has its hitherto undiscovered my- 
steries, after which men should travel undiscouraged 
by the failure of former adventurers. Every new 
attempt serves perhaps to facilitate its future inven- 
tion. We may not find the philosopher's stone, but 
we shall probably hit upon new inventions in pur- 



80 THE BEE. 

suing it. We shall perhaps never be able to disco- 
ver the longitude, yet perhaps we may arrive at new 
truths in the investigation. 

Were any of those sagacious minds among us,' J 
(and surely no nation, or no period, could ever-f 
compare with us in this particular) were any of those 
minds, I say, who now sit down contented with ex- 1 
ploring the intricacies of another's system, bravely 
to shake off admiration, and, undazzled with the " 
splendour of another's reputation, to chalk out a 
path to fame for themselves, and boldly cultivate 
untried experiment, what might not be the result of 
their inquiries, should the same study that has made 
them wise, make them enterprising also ? What 1 
could not such qualities united produce ? But such 
is not the character of the English ; while our 
neighbours of the continent launch out into the 
ocean of science, without proper store for the voyage, 
we fear shipwreck in every breeze, and consume in 
port those powers which might probably have wea- 
thered every storm. 

Projectors in a state are generally rewarded 
above their deserts ; projectors in the republic of 
letters, never. If wrong, every inferior dunce thinks 
himself entitled to laugh at their disappointment ; if 
right, men of superior talents think their honour 
engaged to oppose, since every new discovery is a 
tacit diminution of their own pre-eminence. 

To aim at excellence, our reputation, our friends, 
and our all must be ventured ; by aiming only at 
mediocrity, we run no risque, and we do little ser- 1 
vice. Prudence and greatness are ever persuading 
us to contrary pursuits. The one instructs us to be -i 
content with our station, and to find happiness in j 









A CITY NIGHT-PIECE. &1 

bounding every wish. The other impels us to su- 
periority, and calls nothing happiness but rapture. 
The one directs to follow mankind, and to act and 
think with the rest of the world. The other drives 
us from the crowd, and exposes us as a mark to all 
the shafts of envy or ignorance. 

Nee minus periculum ex magna fama quam ex mala. 

Tacit. 

The rewards of mediocrity are immediately paid, 
those attending excellence generally paid in rever- 
sion. In a word, the little mind who loves itself, 
will write and think with the vulgar, but the great 
mind will be bravely eccentric, and scorn the beaten 
road, from universal benevolence. 



A CITY NIGHT-PIECE. 

The clock just struck two, the expiring taper rises 
and sinks in the socket ; the watchman forgets the 
hour in slumber ; the laborious and the happy are 
at rest, and nothing wakes but meditation, guilt, 
revelry, and despair. The drunkard once more fills 
the destroying bowl ; the robber walks his midnight 
round ; and the suicide lifts his guilty arm against 
his own sacred person. 

Let me no longer waste the night over the page 
of antiquity, or the sallies of contemporary genius ; 
but pursue the solitary walk, where vanity, ever 
changing, but a few hours past walked before me, 
where she kept up the pageant, and now, like a 

e2 



82 THE BEE. 

froward child, seems hushed with her own impor- 
tunities. 

What a gloom hangs all around ! the dying lamp 
feebly emits a yellow gleam; no sound is heard 
but of the chiming clock, or the distant watch-dog. 
All the bustle of human pride is forgotten : an hour 
like this may well display the emptiness of human 
vanity. 

There will come a time when this temporary so- 
litude may be made continual, and the city itself, 
like its inhabitants, fade away, and leave a desert 
in its room. 

What cities as great as this have once triumphed 
in existence, had their victories as great, joy as just 
and as unbounded, and with short-sighted presump- 
tion promised themselves immortality. Posterity 
can hardly trace the situation of some. The sor- 
rowful traveller wanders over the awful ruins of 
others ; and as he beholds he learns wisdom, and 
feels the transience of every sublunary possession. 

Here, he cries, stood their citadel, now grown 
over with weeds ; there their senate-house, but now 
the haunt of every noxious reptile ; temples and 
theatres stood here, now only an undistinguished 
heap of ruin. They are fallen, for luxury and ava- 
rice first made them feeble. The rewards of the 
state were conferred on amusing, and not on useful 
members of society. Their riches and opulence 
invited the invaders, who, though at first repulsed, 
returned again, conquered by perseverance, and at 
last swept the defendants into undistinguished de- 
struction. 

How few appear in those streets which but some 
few hours ago were crowded; and those who 



A. CITY NIGHT-PIECE. 83 

appear now no longer wear their daily mask, nor 
attempt to hide their lewdness or their misery. 

But who are those who make the streets their 
couch, and find a short repose from wretchedness 
at the doors of the opulent ? These are strangers, 
wanderers, and orphans, whose circumstances are 
too humble to expect redress, and whose distresses 
are too great even for pity. Their wretchedness 
excites rather horror than pity. Some are without 
the covering even of rags, and others emaciated with 
disease; the world has disclaimed them; society 
turns its back upon their distress, and has given 
them up to nakedness and hunger. These poor 
shivering females have once seen happier days, and 
been flattered into beauty. They have been pro- 
stituted to the gay luxurious villain, and are now 
turned out to meet the severity of winter. Perhaps, 
now lying at the doors of their betrayers, they sue 
to wretches whose hearts are insensible, or de- 
bauchees who may curse, but will not relieve 
them. 

Why, why was I born a man, and yet see the 
sufferings of wretches I cannot relieve ! Poor house- 
less creatures ! the world will give you reproaches, 
but will not give you relief. The slightest misfor- 
tunes of the great, the most imaginary uneasiness 
of the rich, are aggravated with all the power of 
eloquence, and held up to engage our attention and 
sympathetic sorrow. The poor weep unheeded, 
persecuted by every subordinate species of tyranny ; 
and every law, which gives others security, becomes 
an enemy to them. 

Why was this heart of mine formed with so much 
sensibility! or why was not my fortune adapted to 



84 THE BEE. 

its impulse! Tenderness, without a capacity of 
relieving, only makes the man who feels it more 
wretched than the ohject which sues for assistance. 

But let me turn from a scene of such distress to 
the sanctified hypocrite, who has been talking of vir- 
tue till the time of bed, and now steals out, to give a 
loose to his vices under the protection of midnight ; 
vices more atrocious, because he attempts to con- 
ceal them. See how he pants down the dark alley, 
and, with hastening steps, fears an acquaintance in 
every face. He has passed the whole day in com- 
pany he hates, and now goes to prolong the night 
among company that as heartily hate him. May 
his vices he detected ! may the morning rise upon 
his shame ! yet I wish to no purpose ; villany, when 
detected, never gives up, but boldly adds impudence 
to imposture. 

Adieu. 



No. 5. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 3, 1759. 



UPON POLITICAL FRUGALITY. 

Frugality has ever been esteemed a virtue as 
well among Pagans as Christians : there have been 
even heroes who have practised it. However, we 
must acknowledge, that it is too modest a virtue, 
or, if you will, too obscure a one to be essential to 
heroism ; few heroes have been able to attain to 
such an height. Frugality agrees much better with 
politics j it seems to be the base, the support, and, 



UPON POLITICAL FRUGALITY. 35 

in a word, seems to be the inseparable companion 
of a just administration. 

However this be, there is not perhaps in the 
world a people less fond of this virtue than the 
English, and of consequence there is not a nation 
more restless, more exposed to the uneasiness of life, 
or less capable of providing for particular happiness. 
We are taught to despise this virtue from our child- 
hood ; our education is improperly directed, and a 
man who has gone through the politest institutions, 
is generally the person who is least acquainted with 
the wholesome precepts of frugality. We every 
day hear the elegance of taste, the magnificence of 
some, and the generosity of others, made the sub- 
ject of our admiration and applause. All this we 
see represented, not as the end and recompence of 
labour and desert, but as the actual result of genius, 
as the mark of a noble and exalted mind. 

In the midst of these praises bestowed on luxury, 
for whom elegance and taste are but another name, 
perhaps it may be thought improper to plead the 
cause of frugality. It may be thought low, or vainly 
declamatory, to exhort our youth from the follies of 
dress, and of every other superfluity ; to accustom 
themselves, even with mechanic meanness, to the 
simple necessaries of life. Such sort of instructions 
may appear antiquated; yet, however, they seem 
the foundations of all our virtues, and the most effi- 
cacious method of making mankind useful members 
of society. Unhappily, however, such discourses 
are not fashionable among us ; and the fashion seems 
every day growing still more obsolete, since the 
press, and every other method of exhortation, seems 
disposed to talk of the luxuries of life as harmless 



86 THE BEE. 

enjoyments. I remember, when a boy, to have 
remarked, that those who in school wore the finest 
clothes were pointed at as being conceited and 
proud. At present, our little masters are taught to 
consider dress betimes, and they are regarded, even 
at school, with contempt, who do not appear as 
genteel as the rest. Education should teach us to 
become useful, sober, disinterested, and laborious 
members of society; but does it not at present point 
out a different path ? It teaches us to multiply our 
wants, by which means we become more eager to 
possess, in order to dissipate; a greater charge to 
ourselves, and more useless or obnoxious to so- 
ciety. 

If a youth happens to be possessed of more genius 
than fortune, he is early informed that he ought to 
think of his advancement in the world ; that he 
should labour to make himself pleasing to his supe- 
riors ; that he should shun low company (by which 
is meant the company of his equals) ; that he should 
rather live a little above than below his fortune ; 
that he should think of becoming great ; but he finds 
none to admonish him to become frugal, to persevere 
in one single design, to avoid every pleasure and all 
flattery, which, however, seeming to conciliate the 
favour of his superiors, never conciliate their esteem. 
There are none to teach him, that the best way of 
becoming happy in himself, and useful to others, is 
to continue in the state in which fortune at first 
placed him, without making too hasty strides to 
advancement; that greatness may be attained, but 
should not be expected ; and that they who most 
impatiently expect advancement, are seldom pos- 
sessed of their wishes. He has few, I say, to teach 






UPON POLITICAL FRUGALITY. 87 

him this lesson, or to moderate his youthful pas- 
sions ; yet, this experience may say, that a young 
man, who but for six years of the early part of his 
life could seem divested of all his passions, would 
certainly make, or considerably increase his fortune, 
and might indulge several of his favourite inclina- 
tions in manhood with the utmost security. 

The efficaciousness of these means is sufficiently 
known and acknowledged ; but as we are apt to 
connect a low idea with all our notions of. frugality, 
the person who would persuade us to it might be 
accused of preaching up avarice. 

Of all vices, however, against which morality dis- 
suades, there is not one more undetermined than 
this of avarice. Misers are described by some, as 
men divested of honour, sentiment, or humanity; 
but this is only an ideal picture, or the resemblance 
at least is found but in a few. In truth, they who 
are generally called misers, are some of the very 
best members of society. The sober, the laborious, 
the attentive, the frugal, are thus styled by the gay, 
giddy, thoughtless, and extravagant. The first set 
of men do society all the good, and the latter all the 
evil that is felt. Even the excesses of the first no 
way injure the commonwealth ; those of the latter 
are the most injurious that can be conceived. 

The ancient Romans, more rational than we in 
this particular, were very far from thus misplacing 
their admiration or praise ; instead of regarding the 
practice of parsimony as low or vicious, they made 
it synonymous even with probity. They esteemed 
those virtues so inseparable^ that the known expres- 
sion of virfrugi signified, at one and the same time > 



88 THE BEE. 

a sober and managing man, an honest man, and I 
man of substance. 

The Scriptures, in a thousand places, praise eco 
mony; and it is every where distinguished fron 
avarice. But in spite of all its sacred dictates, 
taste for vain pleasures and foolish expense is thi. 
ruling passion of the present times. Passion, did ] 
call it ? Rather the madness which at once possesses 
the great and the little, the rich and the poor; even 
some are so intent upon acquiring the superfluitiei 
of life, that they sacrifice its necessaries in thi 
foolish pursuit. 

To attempt the entire abolition of luxury, M „ 
would be impossible, so it is not my intent. The 
generality of mankind are too weak, too much 
slaves to custom and opinion, to resist the torrent 
of bad example. But if it be impossible to conver 
the multitude; those who have received a mort 
extended education, who are enlightened and judi- 
cious, may find some hints on this subject useful. 
They may see some abuses, the suppression of 
which would by no means endanger public liberty; 
they may be directed to the abolition of some ne- 
cessary expenses, which have no tendency to pro- 
mote happiness or virtue, and which might be di- 
rected to better purposes. Our fire -works, our 
public feasts and entertainments, our entries of 
ambassadors, &c. what mummery all this ! what 
childish pageants ! what millions are sacrificed in 
paying tribute to custom ! what an unnecessary 
charge at times when we are pressed with real 
want, which cannot be satisfied without burthening 
the poor ! 



UPON POLITICAL FRUGALITY. 89 

Were such suppressed entirely, not a single crea- 
ture in the state would have the least cause to 
mourn their suppression, and many might be eased 
of a load they now feel lying heavily upon them. If 
this were put in practice, it would agree with the 
advice of a sensible writer of Sweden, who, in the 
Gazette de France, 1753, thus expressed himself 
on that subject. " It were sincerely to be wished," 
says he, " that the custom were established amongst 
us, that in all events which cause a public joy, we 
made our exultations conspicuous only by acts use- 
ful to society. We should then quickly see many 
useful monuments of our reason, which would much 
better perpetuate the memory of things worthy of 
being transmitted to posterity, and would be much 
more glorious to humanity than all these tumultuous 
preparations of feasts, entertainments, and other 
rejoicings used upon such occasions/* 

The same proposal was long before confirmed by 
a Chinese emperor, who lived in the last century; 
who, upon an occasion of extraordinary joy, for- 
bade his subjects to make the usual illuminations, 
either with a design of sparing their substance, or 
of turning them to some more durable indication 
of joy, more glorious for him, and more advanta- 
geous for his people. 

After such instances of political frugality, can 
we then continue to blame the Dutch ambassador 
at a certain court, who, receiving at his departure 
the portrait of the king enriched with diamonds, 
asked what this fine thing might be worth ? Being 
told that it might amount to about two thousand 
pounds, " And why," cries he, " cannot his majesty 
keep the picture, and give the money ?" The sim? 



90 THE BEE. 

plicity may be ridiculed at first ; but, when we 
come to examine it more closely, men of sense will 
at once confess that he had reason in what he said, 
and that a purse of two thousand guineas is much 
more serviceable than a picture. 

Should we follow the same method of state fru- 
gality in other respects, what numberless savings 
might not be the result! How many possibilities 
of saving in the administration of justice, which 
now burdens the subject, and enriches some mem- 
bers of society, who are useful only from its cor- 
ruption ! 

It were to be wished, that they who govern 
kingdoms would imitate artizans. When at Lon- 
don a new stuff has been invented, it is imme- 
diately counterfeited in France. How happy were 
it for society, if a first minister would be equally 
solicitous to transplant the useful laws of other 
countries into his own. We are arrived at a per- 
fect imitation of porcelain ; let us endeavour to 
imitate the good to society that our neighbours are 
found to practise ; and let our neighbours also imi- 
tate those parts of duty in which we excel. 

There are some men, who in their garden at- 
tempt to raise those fruits which nature has adapted 
only to the sultry climates beneath the line. We 
have at our very doors a thousand laws and customs 
infinitely useful; these are the fruits we should 
endeavour to transplant ; these the exotics that 
would speedily become naturalized to the soil. 
They might grow in every climate, and benefit 
every possessor. 

The best and the most useful laws I have ever 
seen, are generally practised in Holland. When 



UPON POLITICAL FRUGALITY. 91 

two men are determined to go to law with each 
other, they are first obliged to go before the recon- 
ciling judges, called the peace-makers. If the par- 
ties come, attended with an advocate or a solicitor, 
they are obliged to retire, as we take fuel from 
the fire we are desirous of extinguishing. 

The peace makers then begin advising the par- 
ties, by assuring them that it is the height of folly 
to waste their substance, and make themselves mu- 
tually miserable, by having recourse to the tribu- 
nals of justice ; follow but our direction, and we 
will accommodate matters without any expense to 
either. If the rage of debate is too strong upon 
either party, they are remitted back for another 
day, in order that time may soften their tempers, 
and produce a reconciliation. They are thus sent 
for twice or thrice; if their folly happens to be 
incurable, they are permitted to go to law, and as 
we give up to amputation such members as cannot 
be cured by art, justice is permitted to take its 
course. 

It is unnecessary to make here long declamations, 
or calculate what society would save, were this 
law adopted. I am sensible, that the man who ad- 
vises any reformation, only serves to make himself 
ridiculous. What ! mankind will be apt to say, 
adopt the customs of countries that have not so 
much real liberty as our own ? our present customs, 
what are they to any man ? we are very happy un- 
der them ; this must be a very pleasant fellow, who 
attempts to make us happier than we already are ! 
Does he not know that abuses are the patrimony 
of a great part of the nation ? Why deprive us of 
a malady by which such numbers find their ac- 



.t be 



92 THE BEE. 

count ? This, I must own, is an argument to wl 
I have nothing to reply. 

What numberless savings might there not _. 
made both in arts and commerce, particularly in 
the liberty of exercising trade, without the neces- 
sary pre-requisites of freedom ! Such useless ob- 
structions have crept into every state, from a spirit 
of monopoly, a narrow selfish spirit of gain, with- 
out the least attention to general society. Such a 
clog upon industry frequently drives thepoor from 
labour, and reduces them by degrees to a state of 
hopeless indigence. We have already a more than 
sufficient repugnance to labour; we should by 
no means increase the obstacles, or make excuses 
in a state for idleness. Such faults have ever 
crept into a state under wrong or needy admini- 
strations. 

Exclusive of the masters, there are numberless 
faulty expenses among the workmen: clubs, gar- 
nishes, freedoms, and such like impositions, which 
are not too minute even for law to take notice of, 
and which should be abolished without mercy*, 
since they are ever the inlets to excess and idle- 
ness, and are the parent of all those outrages which 
naturally fall upon the more useful part of so- 
ciety. In the towns and countries I have seen, 
I never saw a city or village yet, whose miseries 
were not in proportion to the number of its public 
houses. In Rotterdam, you may go through eight 
or ten streets without finding a public house. In 
Antwerp, almost every second house seems an ale- 
house. In the one city all wears the appearance 
of happiness and warm affluence; in the other, 
the young fellows walk about the streets in shabby , 



UPON POLITICAL FRUGALITY* 93 

finery, their fathers sit at the door darning or 
knitting stockings, while their ports are filled with 
dunghills. 

Alehouses are ever an occasion of debauchery 
and excess, and, either in a religious or political 
light, it would be our highest interest to have the 
greatest part of them suppressed. They should be 
put under laws of not continuing open beyond a 
certain hour, and harbouring only proper persons. 
These rules, it may be said, will diminish the ne- 
cessary taxes ; but this is false reasoning, since 
what was consumed in debauchery abroad, would, 
if such a regulation took place, be more justly, and 
perhaps more equitably for the workmen's family, 
spent at home; and this cheaper to them, and 
without loss of time. On the other hand, our ale- 
houses, being ever open, interrupt business ; the 
workman is never certain who frequents them, 
nor can the master be sure of having what was 
begun finished at the convenient time. 

A habit of frugality among the lower orders of 
mankind is much more beneficial to society than 
the unreflecting might imagine. The pawnbroker, 
the attorney, and other pests of society, might, by 
proper management, be turned into serviceable 
members ; and, were their trades abolished, it is 
possible the same avarice that conducts the one, or 
the same chicanery that characterizes the other, 
might, by proper regulations, be converted into fru- 
gality and commendable prudence. 

But some have made the eulogium of luxury, 
have represented it as the natural consequence of 
every country that is become rich. Did we not 
employ our extraordinary wealth in superfluities* 



94 THE BEE. 

say they, what other means would there be to eniJ 
ploy it in? To which it may be answered, if fru-. J 
gality were established in the state, if our expenses 
were laid out rather in the necessaries than the 
superfluities of life, there might be fewer wants, 
and even fewer pleasures, but infinitely more hapii 
piness. The rich and the great would be better 
able to satisfy their creditors ; they would be better ' 
able to marry their children ; and instead of one 
marriage at present, there might be two, if such 
regulations took place. 

The imaginary calls of vanity, which in realital 
contribute nothing to our real felicity, would not 
then be attended to, while the real calls of nature 1 
might be always and universally supplied. The 
difference of employment in the subject is what, in 
reality, produces the good of society. If the sub- 
ject be engaged in providing only the luxuries, the 
necessaries must be deficient in proportion. If neg- j 
lecting the produce of our own country, our minds 
are set upon the productions of another, we increase J 
our wants, but not our means ; and every new im- 
ported delicacy for our tables, or ornament in our 
equipage, is a tax upon the poor. 

The true interest of every government is to culti- 
vate the necessaries, by which is always meant 1 
every happiness our own country can produce; 
and suppress all the luxuries, by which is meant^ 
on the other hand, every happiness imported from 
abroad. Commerce has therefore its bounds ; and 
every new import, instead of receiving encourage- 
ment, should be first examined whether it be con- 
ducive to the interest of society. 
Among the many publications with which the 



UPON POLITICAL FRUGALITY. 95 

press is every day burthened, I have often won- 
dered why we never had, as in other countries, an 
Economical Journal, which might at once direct 
to all the useful discoveries in other countries, and 
spread those of our own. As other journals serve 
to amuse the learned, or, what is more often the 
case, to make them quarrel, while they only serve 
to give us the history of the mischievous world, 
for so I call our warriors ; or the idle world, for 
so may the learned be called ; they never trouble 
their heads about the most useful part of man- 
kind, our peasants and our artizans : were such a 
work carried into execution, with proper manage- 
ment and just direction, it might serve as a repo- 
sitory for every useful improvement, and increase 
that knowledge which learning often serves to 
confound. 

Sweden seems the only country where the sci- 
ence of economy seems to have fixed its empire. 
In other countries it is cultivated only by a few 
admirers, or by societies which have not received 
sufficient sanction to become completely useful ; 
but here there is founded a royal academy, destined 
to this purpose only, composed of the most learned 
and powerful members of the state; an academy 
which declines every thing which only terminates 
in amusement, erudition, or curiosity ; and admits 
only of observations tending to illustrate husbandry, 
agriculture, and every real physical improvement. 
In this country nothing is left to private' rapacity, 
but every improvement is immediately diffused, and 
its inventor immediately recompensed by the state. 
Happy were it so in other countries ! by this means 
every impostor would be prevented from ruining or 



96 THE BEE. 

deceiving the public with pretended discoveries or 
nostrums, and every real inventor would not, by 
this means, suffer the inconveniences of suspicion. 

In short, the economy, equally unknown to the 
prodigal and avaricious, seems to be a just mean 
between both extremes ; and to a transgression of 
this at present decried virtue it is that we are to 
attribute a great part of the evils which infest 
society. A taste for superfluity, amusement, and 
pleasure, bring effeminacy, idleness, and expense 
in their train. But a thirst of riches is always 
proportioned to our debauchery, and the greatest 
prodigal is too frequently found to be the greatest 
miser; so that the vices which seem the most 
opposite, are frequently found to produce each 
other; and, to avoid both, it is only necessary to 
be frugal. 

Virtus est medium vitiorum et utrimque reductum. 

Hor. 



A REVERIE. 



Scarcely a day passes in which we do not hear 
compliments paid to Dryden, Pope, and other • 
writers of the last age, while not a month comes 
forward that is not loaded with invective against 
the writers of this. Strange, that our critics should 
be fond of giving their favours to those who are in- 
sensible of the obligation, and their dislike to those, 
who of all mankind are most apt to retaliate the 
injury. 

Even though our present writers had not equal 
merit with their predecessors, it would be politic 






A REVERIE. 97 

to use them with ceremony. Every -compliment 
paid them would be more agreeable, in proportion 
as they least deserved it. Tell a lady with a hand- 
some face that she is pretty, she only thinks it her 
due : it is what she has heard a thousand times be- 
fore from others, and disregards the compliment : 
but assure a lady, the cut of whose visage is some- 
thing more plain, that she looks killing to-day, 
she instantly bridles up, and feels the force of the 
well-timed flattery the whole day after. Compli- 
ments, which we think are deserved, we accept 
only as debts, with indifference ; but those which 
conscience informs us we do not merit, we receive 
with the same gratitude that we do favours given 
away. > 

Our gentlemen, however, who preside at the dis- 
tribution of literary fame, seem resolved to part 
with praise neither from motives of justice or ge- 
nerosity : one would think, when they take pen in 
hand, that it was only to blot reputations, and to 
put their seals to the packet which consigns every 
new-born effort to oblivion. 

Yet, notwithstanding the republic of letters hangs 
at present so feebly together ; though those friend- 
ships which once promoted literary fame seem now 
to be discontinued, though every writer who now 
draws the quill seems to aim at profit, as well as 
applause, many among them are probably laying 
in stores for immortality, and are provided with 
a sufficient stock of reputation to last the whole 
journey. 

As I was indulging these reflections, in order to 
eke out the present page, [ could not avoid pursu- 
ing the metaphor of going a journey in my imagU 



98 THE BEE. 

nation, and formed the following- reverie, too wild 
for allegory, and too regular for a dream. 

1 fancied myself placed in the yard of a large inn, 
in which there were an infinite number of waggons 
and stage-coaches, attended by fellows who either 
invited the company to take their places, or were 
busied in packing their baggage. Each vehicle had 
its inscription showing the place of its destination. 
On one 1 could read, The Pleasure Stage-coach; 
on another, The JTaggon of Industry ; on a third, 
The Vanity Ulihn ; and on a fourth, The Landau of , 
Riches. 1 had some inclination to step into each of ! 
these, one after another ; but 1 know not by what 
means, I passed them by, and at last fixed my eye 
upon a small carriage, Berlin fashion, which seemed 
the most convenient vehicle at a distance in the 
world ; and upon my nearer approach, found it to 
be The Fume Machine. 

I instantly made up to the coachman, whom I 
found to be an affable and seemingly good-natured 
fellow. He informed me, that he had but a few days 
ago returned from the Temple of Fame, to which 
he had been carrying Addison, Swift, Pope, Steele, 
Congreve, and Colley Cibber ; that they made but 
indifferent company by the way, and that he one 
or twice was going to empty his berlin of the whole 
cargo; " However," says he, " I got them all safe 
home, with no other damage than a black eye, which 
Colley gave Mr. Pope, and am now returned for 
another coachful." " If that be all, friend," said I, 
" and if you are in want of company, I'll make one 
with all my heart. Open the door ; I hope the 
machine rides easy." " Oh, for that, sir, extremely 
easy." But still keeping the door shut, and measuring 



A REVERIE. 99 

me with his eye, " Pray, sir, have you no lug- 
gage ? You seem to be a good-natured sort of a 
gentleman; but I don't find you have got any lug- 
gage, and I never permit any to travel with me but 
such as have something valuable to pay for coach- 
hire." Examining my pockets, I own I was not a 
little disconcerted at this unexpected rebuff; but 
considering that I carried a number of the Bee un- 
der my arm, I was resolved to open it in his eyes, 
and dazzle him with the splendor of the page. He 
read the title and contents, however, without any 
emotion, and assured me he had never heard of it 
before. " In short, friend," said he, now losing 
all his former respect, " you must not come in. I 
expect better passengers ; but, as you seem a 
harmless creature, perhaps, if there be room left, I 
may let you ride awhile for charity." 

I now took my stand by the coachman at the 
door, and since I could not command a seat, w r as 
resolved to be as useful as possible, and earn by my 
assiduity what I could not by my merit. 

The next that presented for a place was a most 
whimsical figure indeed. He was hung round with 
papers of his own composing, not unlike those 
who sing ballads in the streets, and came dancing 
up to the door with all ihe confidence of instant 
admittance. The volubility of his motion and ad- 
dress prevented my being able to read more of his 
cargo than the word Inspector, which was written 
in great letters at the top of some of the papers. 
He opened the coach-door himself without any cere- 
mony, and was just slipping in, when the coachman, 
with as little ceremony, pulled him back. Our 
figure seemed perfectly angry at this repulse, and 



100 THE BEE. 

demanded gentleman's satisfaction. " Lord, sir !" 
replied the coachman, " instead of proper luggage, 
by your bulk you seem loaded for a West-India 
voyage. You are big enough with all your papers 
to crack twenty stage-coaches. Excuse me, indeed, 
sir, for you must not enter." Our figure now be- 
gan to expostulate ; he assured the coachman, that 
though his baggage seemed so bulky, it was per- 
fectly light, and that he would be contented with 
the smallest corner of room. But Jehu was 
inflexible, and the carrier of the Inspectors was 
sent to dance back again with all his papers flutter- 
ing in the wind. We expected to have no more 
trouble from this quarter, when in a few minutes 
the same figure changed his appearance, like harle- 
quin upon the stage, and with the same confidence 
again made his approaches, dressed in lace, and 
carrying nothing but a nosegay. Upon coming near, 
he thrust the nosegay to the coachman's nose, 
grasped the brass, and seemed now resolved to 
enter by violence. I found the struggle soon begin 
to grow hot, and the coachman, who was a little 
old, unable to continue the contest ; so, in order to 
ingratiate myself, I stepped in to his assistance, and 
our united efforts sent our literary Proteus, though 
worsted, unconquered still, clear off, dancing a ri- 
gadoon, and smelling to his own nosegay. 

The person, who after him appeared as candi- 
date for a place in the stage, came up with an air 
not quite so confident, but somewhat, however, 
theatrical ; and, instead of entering, made the 
coachman a very low bow, which the other re- 
turned, and desired to see his baggage ; upon which 
he instantly produced some farces, a tragedy, and 



A REVERIE. 101 

other miscellaneous productions. The coachman, 
casting his eye upon the cargo, assured him, at pre- 
sent he could not possibly have a place, but hoped 
in time he might aspire to one, as he seemed to 
have read in the 4)ook of nature, without a careful 
perusal of which none ever found entrance at the 
Temple of Fame. " What ! " replied the disap- 
pointed poet, " shall my tragedy, in which 1 have 
vindicated the cause of liberty and virtue" — " Fol- 
low nature," returned the other, " and never ex- 
pect to find lasting fame by topics which only please 
from their popularity. Had you been first in the 
cause of freedom, or praised in virtue more than an 
empty name, it is possible you might have gained 
admittance; but at present I beg, sir, you will 
stand aside for another gentleman whom I see ap- 
proaching," 

This was a very grave personage, whom at some 
distance I took for one of the most reserved, and 
even disagreeable figures I had seen ; but as he ap- 
proached, his appearance improved, and, when I 
could distinguish him thoroughly, I perceived that 
in spite of the severity of his brow, he had one of 
the most good-natured countenances that could be 
imagined. Upon coming to open the stage door, 
he lifted a parcel of folios into the seat before him, 
but our inquisitorial coachman at once shoved 
them out again. " What! not take in my dic- 
tionary !" exclaimed the other in a rage. " Be 
patient, sir," replied the coachman ; " I have drove 
a coach, man and boy, these two thousand years, 
but I do not remember to have carried above one 
dictionary during the whole time. That little 
book which I perceive peeping from one of your 



102 THE BEE. 

pockets, may I presume to ask what it contains ?" 
" A mere trifle," replied the author; " it is call- 
ed The Rambler. " The Rambler!" says the 
coachman; " 1 beg, sir, you'll take your place ^ I 
have heard our ladies in the court of Apollo fre- 
quently mention it with rapture ; and Clio, who 
happens to be a little grave, has been heard to pre- 
fer it to the Spectator ; though others have obser- 
ved, that the reflections, by being refined, some- 
times become minute." 

This grave gentleman was scarcely seated, when 
another, whose appearance was something more 
modern, seemed willing to enter, yet afraid to ask. 
He carried in his hand a bundle of essays, of which 
the coachman was curious enough to inquire the 
contents. " These," replied the gentleman, " are 
rhapsodies against the religion of my country/ 
" And how can you expect to come into my coach, 
after thus choosing the wrong side of the question ? M 
" Ay, but I am right," replied the other ; " and if 
you give me leave, 1 shall in a few minutes state- 
the argument." " Right or wrong," said the coach- 
man, " he who disturbs religion is a blockhead, 
and he shall never travel in a coach of mine." " If 
then," said the gentleman, mustering up all his 
courage, " if I am not to have admittance as an 
essayist, I hope I shall not be repulsed as an his- 
torian ; the last volume of my history met with ap- 
plause. " " Yes," replied the coachman, " but I 
have heard only the first approved at the Temple of 
Fame ; and as I see you have it about you, enter 
without further ceremony." My attention was now 
diverted to a crowd, who were pushing forward a 
person that seemed more inclined to the Stage • 



A REVERIE. 103 

Coach of Riches : but by their means he was driven 
forward to the same machine, which he however 
seemed heartily to despise. Impelled, however, by 
their solicitations, he steps up, flourishing a volu- 
minous history, and demanding admittance. " Sir, 
I have formerly heard your name mentioned," says 
the coachman, " but never as an historian. Is 
there no other work upon which you may claim a 
place?" " None," replied the other, " except a 
romance ; but this is a work of too trifling a nature 
to claim future attention." " You mistake," says 
the inquisitor ; " a well-written romance is no such 
easy task as is generally imagined. I remember 
formerly to have carried Cervantes and Segrais, and 
if you think fit, you may enter." 

Upon our three literary travellers coming into 
the same coach, I listened attentively to hear what 
might be the conversation that passed upon this ex- 
traordinary occasion ; when, instead of agreeable 
or entertaining dialogue, I found them grumbling 
at each other, and each seemed discontented with 
his companions. Strange ! thought I to myself, 
that they who are thus born to enlighten the world, 
should still preserve the narrow prejudices of child- 
hood, and by disagreeing, make even the highest 
merit ridiculous. Were the learned and the wise 
to unite against the dunces of society, instead of 
sometimes siding into opposite parties with them, 
they might throw a lustre upon each other's repu- 
tation, and teach every rank of subordinate merit, 
if not to admire, at least not to avow dislike. 

In the midst of these reflections, I perceived the 
coachman, unmindful of me, had now mounted the 
box. Several were approaching to be taken in, 



104 THE BEE. 

whose pretensions I was sensible were very just ; I 
therefore desired him to stop, and take in more 
passengers ; but he replied, as he had now mounted 
the box, it would be improper to come down ; but 
that he should take them all, one after the other, 
when he should return. So he drove away ; and for 
myself, as I could not get in, I mounted behind, in 
order to hear the conversation on the way. 

(To be continued.) 



A WORD OR TWO ON THE LATE FARCE, 
CALLED 

HIGH LIFE BELOW STAIRS. 

Just as I had expected, before I saw this farce, I 
found it formed on too narrow a plan to afford a 
pleasing variety. The sameness of the humour in 
every scene could not but at last fail of being dis- 
agreeable. The poor, affecting the manners of the 
rich, might be carried on through one character, 
or two at the most, with great propriety ; but to 
have almost every personage on the scene almost 
of the same character, and reflecting the follies 
of each other, was unartful in the poet to the last 
degree. 

The scene was also almost a continuation of the 
same absurdity ; and my Lord Duke and Sir Harry 
(two footmen who assume these characters) have 
nothing else to do but to talk like their masters, and 
are only introduced to speak, and to show them- 
selves. Thus, as there is a sameness of character, 



HIGH LIFE BELOW STAIRS. 105 

there is a barrenness of incident, which, by a very 
small share of address, the poet might have easily 
avoided. 

From a conformity to critic rules, which, per- 
haps, on the whole have done more harm than 
good, our author has sacrificed all the vivacity of 
the dialogue to nature ; and though he makes his 
characters talk like servants, they are seldom ab- 
surd enough, or lively enough to make us merry. 
Though he is always natural, he happens seldom to 
be humorous. 

The satire was well intended, if we regard it as 
being masters ourselves ; but probably a philoso- 
pher would rejoice in that liberty which English- 
men give their domestics ; and for my own part, I 
cannot avoid being pleased at the happiness of those 
poor creatures, who in some measure contribute to 
mine. The Athenians, the politest and best-natured 
people upon earth, were the kindest to their slaves ; 
and if a person may judge, who has seen the world, 
our English servants are the best treated, because 
the generality of our English gentlemen are the po- 
litest under the sun. 

But not to lift my voice among the pack of feeble 
eritics, who probably have no other occupation but 
that of cutting up every thing new, I must own, 
there are one or two scenes that are fine satire, and 
sufficiently humorous ; particularly the first inter- 
view between the two footmen, which at once ridi- 
cules the manners of the great, and the absurdity of 
their imitators. 

Whatever defects there might be in the composi- 
tion, there were none in the action ; in this the per- 
formers showed more humour than I had fancied 

f 2 



106 THE BEE. 

them capable of. Mr. Palmer and Mr. King were 
entirely what they desired to represent ; and Mrs. 1 
Clive (but what need I talk of her, since, without 
the least exaggeration, she has more true humour 
than any actor or actress upon the English or any 
other stage I have seen) ; she, I say, did the part 
all the justice it was capable of. And upon the 
whole, a farce which has only this to recommend 
it, that the author took his plan from the volume 
of nature, by the sprightly manner in which it 
was performed, was for one night a tolerable en- 1 
tertainment. Thus much may be said in its vin- 
dication, that people of fashion seemed more pleased 
in the representation than the subordinate ranks of 
people. 



UPON UNFORTUNATE MERIT. 

Every age seems to have its favourite pursuits, 
which serve to amuse the idle, and relieve the at- 
tention of the industrious. Happy the man who is 
born excellent in the pursuit in vogue, and whose 
genius seems adapted to the times in which he lives. 
How many do we see, who might have excelled in 
arts or sciences, and who seem furnished with ta- 
lents equal to the greatest discoveries, had the road 
not been already beaten by their predecessors, and 
nothing left for them, except trifles, to discover, 
while others of very moderate abilities become 
famous, because happening to be first in the reign- 
ing pursuit ! 

Thus, at the renewal of letters in Europe, the 
taste was not to compose new books, but to com- 






UPON UNFORTUNATE MERIT. 107 

merit on the old ones. It was not to be expected 
that new books should be written, when there were 
so many of the ancients either not known or not 
understood. It was not reasonable to attempt new 
conquests, while they had such an extensive region 
lying waste for want of cultivation. At that period 
criticism and erudition were the reigning studies o f 
the times ; and he, who had only an inventive ge- 
nius, might have languished in hopeless obscurity. 
When the writers of antiquity were sufficiently ex- 
plained and known, the learned set about imitating 
them : hence proceeded the number of Latin ora- 
tors, poets, and historians, in the reigns of Clement 
the seventh, and Alexander the sixth. This passion 
for antiquity lasted for many years, to the utter ex- 
clusion of every other pursuit ; till some began to 
find, that those works which were imitated from 
nature, were more like the writings of antiquity, 
than even those written in express imitation. It 
was then modern language began to be cultivated 
with assiduity, and our poets and orators poured 
forth their wonders upon the world. 

As writers become more numerous, it is natural 
for readers to become more indolent ; whence must 
necessarily arise a desire of attaining knowledge 
with the greatest possible ease. No science or art 
offers its instruction and amusement in so obvious 
a manner as statuary and painting. Hence we see, 
that a desire of cultivating those arts generally at- 
tends the decline of science. Thus the finest statues 
and the most beautiful paintings of antiquity pre- 
ceded but a little the absolute decay of every other 
science. The statues of Antoninus, Commodus, and 
their contemporaries, are the finest productions of 



103 



THE BEE. 



the chisel, and appeared but just before learning 
was destroyed by comment, criticism, and barbarous 
innovations. 

What happened in Rome may probably be the 
case with us at home. Our nobility are now more 
solicitous in patronizing painters and sculptors 
than those of any other polite profession ; and from 
the lord, who has his gallery, down to the 'prentice, 
who has his two-penny copper-plate, all are ad- 
mirers of this art. The great, by their caresses, 
seem insensible to all other merit hut that of the 
pencil ; and the vulgar buy every book rather from 
the excellence of the sculptor than the writer. 

How happy were it now, if men of real excel- 
lence in that profession were to arise ! Were the 
painters of Italy now to appear, who once wandered 
like beggars from one city to another, and produce 
their almost breathing figures, what rewards might, 
they not expect ! But many of them lived without 
rewards, and therefore rewards alone will never 
produce their equals. We have often found the great 
exert themselves, not only without promotion, but 
in spite of opposition. We have often found them 
flourishing, like medical plants, in a region of sa- 
vageness and barbarity, their excellence unknown, j 
and their virtues unheeded. 

They who have seen the paintings of Caravagio- 1 
are sensible of the surprising impression they 
make; bold, swelling, terrible to the last de- 
gree ; all seems animated, and speaks him among 
the foremost of his profession ; yet this man's 
fortune and his fame seemed ever in opposition to 
each other. 

Unknowing how to flatter the great, he was j 



UPON UNFORTUNATE MERIT. 109 

driven from city to city in the utmost indigence, and 
might truly be said to paint for his bread. 

Having one day insulted a person of distinction, 
who refused to pay him all the respect which he 
thought his due, he was obliged to leave Rome, and 
travel on foot, his usual method of going his jour- 
neys down into the country, without either money 
or friends to subsist him. 

After he had travelled in this manner as long as 
his strength would permit, faint with famine and 
fatigue, he at last called at an obscure inn by the 
way side. The host knew, by the appearance ot 
his guest, his indifferent circumstances, and re- 
fused to furnish him a dinner without previous pay- 
ment. 

As Caravagio was entirely destitute of money, he 
took down the innkeeper's sign, and painted it anew 
for his dinner. 

Thus refreshed, he proceeded on his journey, and 
left the innkeeper not quite satisfied with this me- 
thod of payment. Some company of distinction, 
however, coining soon after, and struck with the 
beauty of the new sign, bought it at an advanced 
price, and astonished the innkeeper with their 
generosity; he was resolved therefore to get as 
many signs as possible drawn by the same artist, as 
he found he could sell them to good advantage ; and 
accordingly set out after Caravagio, in order to bring 
him back. It was night- fall before he came up to 
the place, where the unfortunate Caravagio lay dead 
by the road side, overcome by fatigue, resentment, 
and despair. 



110 THE BEE. 

No. 6. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 10, 1759. 

ON EDUCATION. 
to the author of the bee. 

Sir, 
As few subjects are more interesting to society, so 
few have been more frequently written upon, than 
the education of youth. Yet is it not a little sur- 
prising, that it should have been treated almost by 
all in a declamatory manner ? They have insisted 
largely on the advantages that result from it, both 
to the individual and to society, and have expatiated 
in the praise of what none have ever been so hardy 
as to call in question. 

Instead of giving us fine but empty harangues 
upon this subject, instead of indulging each his par- 
ticular and whimsical systems, it had been much 
better if the writers on this subject had treated it 
in a more scientific manner, repressed all the sal- 
lies of imagination, and given us the result of their 
observations with didactic simplicity. Upon this 
subject the smallest errors are of the most danger- 
ous consequence ; and the author should not ven- 
ture the imputation of stupidity upon a topic, where 
his slightest deviations may tend to injure the rising 
generation. 

I shall therefore throw out a few thoughts upon 
this subject, which have not been attended to by 



ON EDUCATION. Ill 

others, and shall dismiss all attempts to please, 
while I study only instruction. 

The manner in which our youth of London are 
at present educated is, some in free schools in the 
city, but the far greater number in boarding schools 
about town. The parent justly consults the health 
of his child, and finds an education in the country 
tends to promote this much more than a continu- 
ance in town. Thus far they are right ; if there 
were a possibility of having even our free schools 
kept a little out of town, it would certainly conduce 
to the health and vigour of perhaps the mind, as 
well as of the body. It may be thought whim- 
sical, but it is truth ; I have found by experience, 
that they who have spent all their lives in cities, 
contract not only an effeminacy of habit, but even 
of thinking. 

But when I have said, that the boarding schools 
are preferable to free schools, as being in the coun- 
try, this is certainly the only advantage I can allow 
them ; otherwise it is impossible to conceive the 
ignorance of those who take upon them the impor- 
tant trust of education. Is any man unfit for any 
of the professions ; he finds his last resource in set- 
ting up school. Do any become bankrupts in trade, 
they still set up a boarding school, and drive a trade 
this way, when all others fail : nay, I have been told 
of butchers and barbers, who have turned school- 
masters ; and, more surprising still, made fortunes 
in their new profession. 

Could we think ourselves in a country of civilized 
people ; could it be conceived that we have any re- 
gard for posterity, when such are permitted to take 
the charge of the morals, genius, and health of those 



112 THE BEE. 

dear little pledges, who may one day be the guar- 
dians of the liberties of Europe, and who may serve 
as the honour and bulwark of their aged parents ? 
The care of our children, is it below the state ? is 
it fit to indulge the caprice of the ignorant with the 
disposal of their children in this particular ? For 
the state to take the charge of all its children, as in 
Persia or Sparta, might at present be inconvenient ; 
but surely with great ease it might cast an eye to 
their instructors. Of all members of society, I do 
not know a more useful, or a more honourable one, 
than a schoolmaster ; at the same time that I do 
not see any more generally despised, or whose ta- 
lents are so ill rewarded. 

Were the salaries of schoolmasters to be aug- 
mented from a diminution of useless sinecures, how 
might it turn to the advantage of this people ; a 
people whom, without flattery, I may in other re- 
spects term the wisest and greatest upon earth ! 
But while I would reward the deserving, I would 
dismiss those utterly unqualified for their employ- 
ment : in short, I would make the business of a 
schoolmaster every way more respectable, by in- 
creasing their salaries, and admitting only men of 
proper abilities. 

There are already schoolmasters appointed, and 
they have some small salaries ; but where at pre- 
sent there is but one schoolmaster appointed, there 
should at least be two ; and wherever the salary is 
at present twenty pounds, it should be a hundred. 
Do we give immoderate benefices to those who in- 
struct ourselves, and shall we deny even subsistence 
to those who instruct our children ? Every member 
of society should be paid in proportion as he is ne- 



ON EDUCATION. 113 

cessary; and I will be bold enough to say, that 
schoolmasters in a state are more necessary than 
clergymen, as children stand in more need of in- 
struction than their parents. 

But instead of this, as I have already observed, 
we send them to board in the country to the most 
ignorant set of men that can be imagined. But lest 
the ignorance of the master be not sufficient, the 
child is generally consigned to the usher. This is 
generally some poor needy animal, little superior 
to a footman either in learning or spirit, invited to 
his place by an advertisement, and kept there merely 
from his being of a complying disposition, and ma- 
king the children fond of him. " You give your 
child to be educated to a slave," says a philosopher 
to a rich man ; " instead of one slave, you will then 
have two/' 

It were well, however, if parents, upon fixing 
their children in one of these houses, would exa- 
mine the abilities of the usher as well as of the 
master ; for whatever they are told to the contrary, 
the usher is generally the person most employed in 
their education. If then a gentleman, upon putting 
out his son to one of these houses, sees the usher 
disregarded by the master, he may depend upon it, 
that he is equally disregarded by the boys ; the 
truth is, in spite of all their endeavours to please, 
they are generally the laughing-stock of the school. 
Every trick is played upon the usher ; the oddity of 
his manners, his dress, or his language, is a fund 
of eternal ridicule ; the master himself now and then 
cannot avoid joining in the laugh, and the poor 
wretch, eternally resenting this ill usage, seems to 
live in a state of war with all the family. This is a 



114 THE BEE. 

very proper person, is it not, to give children a 
relish for learning- ? They must esteem learning 
very much when they see its professors used with 
such ceremony. If the usher be despised, the fa- i 
ther may be assured his child will never be properly 
instructed. 

But let me suppose, that there are some school] 
without these inconveniences, where the master and 
ushers are men of learning, reputation, and assi-1 
duity. If there are to be found such, they cannot^ 
be prized in a state sufficiently. A boy will learn I 
more true wisdom in a public school in a year, than 
by a private education in five. It is not from mas- 1 
ters, but from their equals, youth learn a knowledge 
of the world ; the little tricks they play each other, 
the punishment that frequently attends the com- 
mission, is a just picture of the great world; and 
all the ways of men are practised in a public school 
in miniature. It is true, a child is early made ac- 
quainted with some vices in a school ; but it is bet- 
ter to know these when a boy, than be first taught 
them when a man, for their novelty then may have 
irresistible charms. 

In a public education, boys early learn tempe- 
rance ; and if the parents and friends would give 
them less money upon their usual visits, it would be 
much to their advantage, since it may justly be said 
that a great part of their disorders arise from sur- 
feit ; plus occidit gula quam gladius. And now I 
am come to the article of health, it may not be 
amiss to observe, that Mr. Locke and some others 
have advised that children should be inured to 
cold, to fatigue, and hardship from their youth; 
but Mr. Locke was but an indifferent physician. 



ON EDUCATION. 115 

Habit, I grant, has great influence over our con- 
stitutions, but we have not precise ideas upon this 
subject. 

We know that among savages, and even among 
onr peasants, there are found children born with 
such constitutions, that they cross rivers by swim- 
ming, endure cold, thirst, hunger, and want of sleep 
to a surprising degree ; that when they happen to 
fall sick, they are cured without the help of medi- 
cine, by nature alone. Such examples are adduced 
to persuade us to imitate their manner of education, 
and accustom ourselves betimes to support the same 
fatigues. But had these gentlemen considered first, 
that those savages and peasants are generally not so 
long-lived as they who have led a more indolent 
life ; secondly, that the more laborious the life is, 
the less populous is the country : had they consi- 
dered that what physicians call the stamina vitce, 
by fatigue and labour become rigid, and thus anti- 
cipate old age ; that the number, who survive those 
rude trials, bears no proportion to those who die in 
the experiment : had these things been properly 
considered, they would not have thus extolled an 
education begun in fatigue and hardships. Peter 
the Great, willing to inure the children of his sea- 
men to a life of hardship, ordered that they should 
drink only sea water, but unfortunately they all died 
under the experiment. 

But while I would exclude all unnecessary labours, 
yet still I would recommend temperance in the 
highest degree. No luxurious dishes with high 
seasoning, nothing given children to force au appe- 
tite, as little sugared or salted provisions as possi- 
ble, though never so pleasing ; but milk, morning 



116 THE BEE. 

and night, should be their constant food. This diet 
would make them more healthy than any of those 
slops that are usually cooked by the mistress of a 
boarding school ; besides, it corrects any consump- s 
the habits, not uufrequently found amongst the 
children of city parents. 

As boys should be educated with temperance, so 
the first greatest lesson that should be taught them 
is, to admire frugality. It is by the exercise of this 
virtue alone, they can ever expect to be useful mem- 
bers of society. It is true, lectures continually re- 
peated upon this subject may make some boys, when 
they grow up, run into an extreme, and become 
misers ; but it were well had we more misers than 
Ave have among us. I know few characters more 
useful in society, for a man's having a larger or 
smaller share of money lying useless by him, no 
way injures the commonwealth ; since, should every 
miser now exhaust his stores, this might make gold 
more plenty, but it would not increase the commo- 
dities or pleasures of life; they would still remain 
as they are at present ; it matters not, therefore, 
whether men are misers or not, if they be only fru- 
gal, laborious, and fill the station they have chosen. 
If they deny themselves the necessaries of life, so- 
ciety is no way injured by their folly. 

Instead therefore of romances, which praise young 
, men of spirit, who go through a variety of adven- 
tures, and at last conclude a life of dissipation, folly, 
and extravagance in riches and matrimony, there 
should be some men of wit employed to compose 
books that might equally interest the passions of 
our youth, where such an one might be praised for 
having resisted allurements when young, and how 



ON EDUCATION. 117 

he at last became lord mayor ; bow be was married 
to a lady of great sense, fortune, and beauty ; to be 
as explicit as possible, the old story of Whittington, 
were bis cat left out, might be more serviceable to 
the tender mind than either Tom Jones, Joseph 
Andrews, or a hundred others, where frugality is 
the only good quality the hero is not possessed of. 
Were our schoolmasters, if any of them had sense 
enough to draw up such a work, thus employed, it 
would be much more serviceable to their pupils, 
than all the grammars and dictionaries they may 
publish these ten years. 

Children should early be instructed in the arts 
from which they would afterwards draw the greatest 
advantages. When the wonders of nature are never 
exposed to our view, we have no great desire to be- 
come acquainted with those parts of learning which 
pretend to account for the phenomena. One of 
the ancients complains, that as soon as young men 
have left school, and are obliged to converse in the 
world, they fancy themselves transported into a new 
region. Ut cum in forum venerint existiment se in 
aliam terrarum orbem delatos. We should early 
therefore instruct them in the experiments, if I may 
so express it, of knowledge, and leave to maturer 
age the accounting for the causes. But instead of 
that, when boys begin natural philosophy in col- 
leges, they have not the least curiosity for those 
parts of the science which are proposed for their 
instruction ; they have never before seen the phe- 
nomena, and consequently have no curiosity to 
learn the reasons. Might natural philosophy there- 
fore be made their pastime in school, by this means 
it would in college become their amusement. 



113 



THE BEE. 



In several of the machines now in use there would 
be ample field both for instruction and amusement : 
the different sorts of the phosphorus, the artificial 
pyrites, magnetism, electricity, the experiments 
upon the rarefaction and weight of the air, and those 
upon elastic bodies, might employ their idle hours, 
and none should be called from play to "see such ex- 
periments but such as thought proper. At first then 
it would be sufficient if the instruments, and the 
effects of their combination were only shown ; the 
causes should he deferred to a maturer age, or to 
those times when natural curiosity prompts us to 
discover the wonders of nature. Man is placed in 
this world as a spectator ; when he is tired with 
wondering at all the novelties about him, and not 
till then, does he desire to be made acquainted with 
the causes that create those wonders. 

What I have observed with regard to natural 
philosophy, I would extend to every other science 
whatsoever. We should teach them as many of the 
facts as were possible, and defer the causes until 
they seemed of themselves desirous of knowing 
them. A mind thus leaving school, stored with all 
the simple experiences of science, would be the 
fittest in the world for the college course; and 
though such a youth might not appear so bright, 
or so talkative, as those who had learned the real 
principles and causes of some of the sciences, yet 
he would make a wiser man, and would retain a 
more lasting passion for letters, than he who was 
early burthened with the disagreeable institution of 
effect and cause. 

In history, such stories alone should be laid be- 
fore them as might catch the imagination; instead 



ON EDUCATION. 119 

)f this they are too frequently obliged to toil through 
he four empires, as they are called, where their 
Memories are burthened by a number of disgusting 
lames, that destroy all their future relish for our 
>est historians, who may be termed the truest 
teachers of wisdom. 

Every species of flattery should be carefully 
avoided ; a boy who happens to say a sprightly 
thing, is generally applauded so much, that he hap- 
pens to continue a coxcomb sometimes all his life 
after. He is reputed a wit at fourteen, and becomes 
a blockhead at twenty. Nurses, footmen, and such 
should therefore be driven away as much as possi- 
ble. I was even going to add, that the mother her- 
self should stifle her pleasure, or her vanity, when 
little master happens to say a good or a smart thing. 
Those modest lubberly boys, who seem to want spi- 
rit, generally go through their business with more 
ease to themselves, and more satisfaction to their 
instructors. 

There has of late a gentleman appeared, who 
thinks the study of rhetoric essential to a perfect 
education. That bold male eloquence, which often 
without pleasing convinces, is generally destroyed 
by such institutions. Convincing eloquence, how- 
ever, is infinitely more serviceable to its possessor 
than the most florid harangue or the most pathetic 
tones that can be imagined ; and the man who is 
thoroughly convinced himself, who understands his 
subject, and the language he speaks in, will be more 
apt to silence opposition, than he who studies the 
force of his periods, and fills our ears with sounds, 
while our minds are destitute of conviction. 
It was reckoned the fault of the orators at the 



120 THE EEE# 

decline of the Roman empire, when they had been 
long instructed by rhetoricians, that their periods 
were so harmonious, as that they could be sung as 
well as spoken. What a ridiculous figure must one 
of these gentlemen cut, thus measuring syllables^ 
and weighing words, when he should plead the 
cause of his client ! Two architects were once. 
candidates for the building a certain temple at 
Athens ; the first harangued the crowd very learn- 
edly upon the different orders of architecture, and 
showed them in what manner the temple should be 
built; the other, who got up to speak after him,, 
only observed, that what his brother had spoken he 
could do ; and thus he at once gained his cause. 

To teach men to be orators is little less than to] 
teach them to be poets; and, for my part, I should 
have too great a regard for my child, to wish him a 
manor only in a bookseller's shop. 

Another passion, which the present age is apt tJ 
run into, is to make children learn all things; the 
languages, the sciences, music, the exercises, and 
painting. Thus the child soon becomes a talker] 
in all, but a master in none. He thus acquires 
a superficial fondness for every thing, and only; 
shows his ignorance when he attempts to exhibit 
his skill. 

As I deliver my thoughts without method or con J 
nexion, so the reader must not be surprised to find 
me once more addressing schoolmasters on the pre- 
sent method of teaching the learned languages, 
which is commonly by literal translations. I would, 
ask such if they were to travel a journey, whether j 
those parts of the road in which they'found the 1 
greatest difficulties would not be most strongly re- ] 



ON EDUCATION. 121 

membered? Boys who, if I may continue the 
allusion, gallop through one of the ancients with the 
assistance of a translation, can have but very slight 
acquaintance either with the author or his language. 
It is by the exercise of the mind alone that a lan- 
guage is learned ; but a literal translation on the 
opposite page leaves no exercise for the memory at 
all. The boy will not be at the fatigue of remem- 
bering, when his doubts are at once satisfied by 
a glance of the eye ; whereas were every word to 
be sought from a dictionary, the learner would at- 
tempt to "remember in order to save him the trou- 
ble of looking out for it for the future. 

To continue in the same pedantic strain, though 
no schoolmaster, of all the various grammars now 
taught in the schools about town, I would recom- 
mend only the old common one ; I have forgot 
whether Lilly's, or an emendation of him. The 
others may be improvements; but such improve- 
ments seem to me only mere grammatical niceties, 
no way influencing the learner, but perhaps loading 
him with trifling subtilties, which at a proper age 
he must be at some pains to forget. 

Whatever pains a master may take to make the 
learning of the languages agreeable to his pupil, he 
may depend upon it, it will be at first extremely 
unpleasant. The rudiments of every language, 
therefore, must be given as a task, not as an amuse- 
ment. Attempting to deceive children into instruc- 
tion of this kind, is only deceiving ourselves; and I 
know no passion capable of conquering a child's 
natural laziness but fear. Solomon has said it be- 
fore me : nor is there any more certain, though 
perhaps more disagreeable truth, than the proverb 

G 



122 THE BEE. 

in verse, too well known to repeat on the present 
occasion. It is very probable that parents are told 
of some masters who never use the rod, and conse- 
quently are thought the properest instructors for 
their children ; but though tenderness is a requisite 
quality in an instructor, yet there is too often the 
truest tenderness in well-timed correction. 

Some have justly observed, that all passion should 
be banished on this terrible occasion ; but I know 
not how : there is a frailty attending human nature 
that few masters are able to keep their temper 
whilst they correct. I knew a good-natured man 
who was sensible of his own weakness in this re- 
spect, and consequently had recourse to the follow- 
ing expedient to prevent his passions from being 
engaged, yet at the same time administer justice 
with impartiality. Whenever any of his pupils 
committed a fault, he summoned a jury of his 
peers, I mean of the boys of his own or the next 
classes to him ; his accusers stood forth ; he had a 
liberty of pleading in his own defence, and one or 
two more had a liberty of pleading against him • 
when found guilty by the pannel, he was consigned 
to the footman, who attended in the house, who 
had previous orders to punish, but with lenity. 
By this means the master took off the odium of 
punishment from himself; and the footman, be- 
tween whom and the boys there could not be even 
the slightest intimacy, was placed in such a light 
as to be shunned by every boy in the school.* 

* This dissertation was thus far introduced into the vo- 
lume of Essays, afterwards published by Dr. Goldsmith, 
with the following observation : 

This treatise was published before Rousseau's Emilius : if 



THE INSTABILITY OF WORLDLY GRANDEUR. 123 

And now I have gone thus far, perhaps you will 
think me some pedagogue, willing by a well-timed 
puff to increase the reputation of his own school ; 
but such is not the case. The regard I have for 
society, for those tender minds who are the objects 
of the present essay, is the only motive I have for 
offering those thoughts, calculated not to surprise 
by their novelty, or the elegance of composition, 
but merely to remedy some defects which have crept 
into the present system of school education. If 
this letter should be inserted, perhaps I may trou- 
ble you in my next with some thoughts upon an 
university education, not with an intent to ex- 
haust the subject, but to amend some few abuses. 
I am, &c. 



ON THE INSTABILITY 

OF WORLDLY GRANDEUR. 

An alehouse-keeper near Islington, who had long 
lived at the sign of the French king, upon the com- 
mencement of the last war with France, pulled 
down his old sign, and put up the queen of Hun- 
gary. Under the influence of her red face and 
golden sceptre, he continued to sell ale till she 
was no longer the favourite of his customers ; he 
changed her therefore some time ago for the king 
of •Prussia, who may probably be changed in turn 



there be a similitude in any one instance, it is hoped the au- 
thor of the present Essay will not be termed a plagiarist. 



124 THE BEE. 

for the *next great man that should be set up for 
vulgar admiration. 

Our publican in this imitates the great exactly, 
who deal out their figures one after the other to 
the gazing crowd beneath them. When we have 
sufficiently wondered at one, that is taken in, and 
another exhibited in its room, which seldom holds 
its station long ; for the mob are ever pleased with 
variety. 

I must own I have such an indifferent opinion 
of the vulgar, that I am ever led to suspect that 
merit which raises their shout ; at least I am certain 
to find those great and sometimes good men, who 
find satisfaction in such acclamations, made worse 
by it; and history has too frequently taught me, 
that the head which has grown this day giddy with 
the roar of the million, has the very next been fixed 
upon a pole. 

As Alexander VI. was entering a little town in 
the neighbourhood of Rome, which had been just 
evacuated by the enemy, he perceived the towns- 
men busy in the market-place in pulling down from 
a gibbet a figure, which had been designed to re- 
present himself. There were also some -knocking 
down a neighbouring statue of one of the Orsini 
family, with whom he was at war, in order to put 
Alexander's effigy, when taken down, in its place. 
It is possible a man who knew less of the world 
would have condemned the adulation of those bare- 
faced flatterers : but Alexander seemed pleased at 
their zeal, and, turning to Borgia his son, said with 
a smile, " Vides, mi fili, quam leve discrimen pati- 
bulum inter et statuam :" " You see, my son, the 
small difference between a gibbet and a statue." If 



THE INSTABILITY OF WORLDLY GRANDEUR. 125 

the great could be taught any lesson, this might 
serve to teach them upon how weak a foundation 
their glory stands, which is built upon popular ap- 
plause ; for, as such praise what seems like merit, 
they as quickly condemn what has only the ap- 
pearance of guilt. 

Popular glory is a perfect coquet ; her lovers must 
toil, feel every inquietude, indulge every caprice, 
and perhaps at last be jilted into the bargain. True 
glory, on the other hand, resembles a woman of 
sense ; her admirers must play no tricks ; they feel 
no great anxiety, for they are sure in the end of 
being rewarded in proportion to their merit. When 
Swift used to appear in public, he generally had the 
mob shouting in his train. " Pox take these fools," 
he would say, " how much joy might all this bawl- 
ing give my lord mayor 1" 

We have seen those virtues, which have while 
living retired from the public eye, generally trans- 
mitted to posterity, as the truest objects of admira- 
tion and praise. Perhaps the character of the late 
duke of Marlborough may one day be set up, even 
above that of his more talked-of predecessor ; since 
an assemblage of all the mild and amiable virtues 
is far superior to those vulgarly called the great 
ones. I must be pardoned for this short tribute to 
the memory of a man, who while living would as 
much detest to receive any thing that wore the ap- 
pearance of flattery, as I should to offer it. 

I know not how to turn so trite a subject out of 
the beaten road of common place, except by illus- 
trating it, rather by the assistance of my memory 
than my judgment, and instead of making reflec- 
tions, by telling a story. 



W THE BEE. 

A Chinese, who long had studied the works of 
Confucius, who knew the characters of fourteen 
thousand words, and could read a great part of 
every book that came in his way, once took it into 
his head to travel into Europe, and observe the cus- 
toms of a people whom he thought not very much 
inferior even to his own countrymen, in the arts of 
refining upon every pleasure. Upon his arrival at 
Amsterdam his passion for letters naturally led 
him to a bookseller's shop ; and, as he could speak 
a little Dutch, he civilly asked the bookseller for 
the works of the immortal Ilixofou. The bookseller 
assured him, he had never heard the book men- 
tioned before. " What ! have you never heard of 
that immortal poet/' returned the other, much sur- 
prised, " that light of the eyes, that favourite of 
kings, that rose of perfection ? I suppose you know 
nothing of the immortal Fipsihihi, second cousin to 
the moon ?° " Nothing at all, indeed, sir," returned 
the other. " Alas !" cries our traveller, " to what 
purpose then has one of these fasted to death, 
and the other offered himself up as a sacrifice 
to the Tartarean enemy, to gain a renown which 
has never travelled beyond the precincts of China !" 
There is scarcely a village in Europe, and not 
one university, that is not thus furnished with its 
little great men. The head of a petty corporation, 
who opposes the designs of a prince, who would 
tyrannically force his subjects to save their best 
clothes for Sundays; the puny pedant, who finds 
one undiscovered property in the polype, describes 
an unheeded process in the skeleton of a mole, and 
whose mind like his microscope perceives nature 
only in detail ; the rhymer, who makes smooth 



THE INSTABILITY OF WORLDLY GRANDEUR. 127 

verses, and paints to our imagination when he 
should only speak to our hearts ; all equally fancy 
themselves walking forward to immortality, and 
desire the crowd behind them to look on. The 
crowd takes them at their word. Patriot, philo- 
sopher, and poet, are shouted in their train. Where 
was there ever so much merit seen ; no times so 
important as our own ; ages yet unborn shall gaze 
with wonder and applause ! to such music the im- 
portant pigmy moves forward, bustling and swell- 
ing, and aptly compared to spuddle in a storm. 

1 have lived to see generals, who once had crowds 
hallooing after them wherever they went, who were 
bepraised by newspapers and magazines, those 
echoes of the voice of the vulgar, and yet they have 
long sunk into merited obscurity, with scarcely 
even an epitaph left to natter. A few years ago 
the herring fishery employed all Grub-street; it 
was the topic in every coffee-house, and the bur- 
then of every ballad. We were to drag up oceans 
of gold from the bottom of the sea ; we were to 
supply all Europe with herrings upon our own 
terms. At present we hear no more of all this. 
We have fished up very little gold that I can learn ; 
nor do we furnish the world with herrings as was 
expected. Let us wait but a few years longer, 
and we shall find all our expectations a herring 
fishery. 



128 THE BEE. 

SOME ACCOUNT 

OF THE 

ACADEMIES OF ITALY. 

There is not perhaps a country in Europe, in 
which learning is so fast upon the decline as in 
Italy; yet not one in which there are such a num- 
ber of academies instituted for its support. There 
is scarcely a considerable town in the whole coun- 
try, which has not one or two institutions of this 
nature, where the learned, as they are pleased 
to call themselves, meet to harangue, to compli- 
ment each other, and praise the utility of their 
institution. 

Jarchius has taken the trouble to give us a list of 
those clubs, or academies, which amount to five 
hundred and fifty, each distinguished by somewhat 
whimsical in the name. The academies of Bologna, 
for instance, are divided into the Abbandonati, the 
Ausiosi, Ociosio, Arcadi, Confusi, Dubbiosi, &c. 
There are few of these who have not published 
their transactions, and scarcely a member who is 
not looked upon as the most famous man in the 
world, at home. 

Of all those societies, I know of none whose 
works are worth being known out of the precincts 
of the city in which they were written, except the 
Cicelata-Academica (or, as we might express it, the 
tickling society) of Florence. I have just now be- 
fore me a manuscript oration, spoken by the late 
Tomaso Crudeli at that society, which will at once 



ACCOUNT OF THE ACADEMIES OF ITALY. 129 

serve to give a better picture of the manner in 
which men of wit amuse themselves in that coun- 
try, than any thing I could say upon the occasion. 
The oration is this : 

tf The younger the nymph, my dear companions, 
the more happy the lover. From fourteen to seven- 
teen, you are sure of rinding love for love; from 
seventeen to twenty-one, there is always a mixture 
of interest and affection. But when that period is 
past, no longer expect to receive, but to buy. No 
longer expect a nymph who gives, but who sells 
her favours. At this age every glance is taught 
its duty ; not a look, not a sigh, without design ; 
the lady, like a skilful warrior, aims at the heart of 
another, while she shields her own from danger. 

" On the contrary, at fifteen you may expect 
nothing but simplicity, innocence, and nature. ,The 
passions are then sincere ; the soul seems seated in 
the lips ; the dear object feels present happiness, 
without being anxious for the future ; her eyes 
brighten if her lover approaches ; her smiles are 
borrowed from the graces, and her very mistakes 
seem to complete her desires. 

" Lucretia was just sixteen. The rose and lily 
took possession of her face, and her bosom, by its 
hue and its coldness, seemed covered with snow, 
So much beauty and so much virtue seldom want 
admirers. Orlandino, a youth of sense and merit, 
was among the number. He had long languished 
for an opportunity of declaring his passion, when 
Cupid, as if willing to indulge his happiness, brought 
the charming young couple by mere accident to an 
arbour, where every prying eye but love was ab- 
sent. Orlandino talked of the sincerity of his pas- 

g2 



130 THE BEE. 

sion, and mixed flattery with his address ; but it 
was all in vain. The nymph was pre-engaged, and 
had long devoted to Heaven those charms for which 
he sued. c My dear Orlandino/ said she, ' you 
know T I have long been dedicated to St. Catharine, 
and to her belongs all that lies below my girdle ; 
all that is above you may freely possess, but fur- 
ther I cannot, must not, comply. The vow 
passed ; I wish it were undone, but now it is im- 
possible.' You may conceive, my companions, the 
embarrassment our young lovers felt upon this occa- 
sion. They kneeled to St. Catharine, and, though 
both despaired, both implored her assistance. Their 
tutelar saint was entreated to show some expedient 
by which both might continue to love, and yet 
both be happy. Their petition was sincere. St. 
Catharine was touched with compassion : for lo, a 
miracle ! Lucretia's girdle unloosed, as if without 
hands ; and, though before bound round her middle, 
fell spontaneously down to her feet, and gave Or- 
landino the possession of all those beauties which 
lay above it." 



No. 7. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER J 7, 1759. 



OF ELOQUENCE. 

Of all kinds of success, that of an orator is the 
most pleasing. Upon other occasions the applause 
we deserve is conferred in our absence, and we are 
insensible of the pleasure we have given; but in 
eloquence the victory and the triumph are insepa- 



OF ELOQUENCE. 131 

rable. We read our own glory in the face of every 
spectator ; the audience is moved, the antagonist is 
defeated, and the whole circle bursts into unsoli- 
cited applause. 

The rewards which attend excellence in this 
way are so pleasing, that numbers have written 
professed treatises to teach us the art; schools have 
been established with no other intent ; rhetoric has 
taken place among the institutions, . and pedants 
have ranged under proper heads, and distinguished 
with long learned names, some of the strokes of 
nature, or of passion, which orators have used. 
I say only some; for a folio volume could not 
contain all the figures which have been used by 
the truly eloquent, and scarcely a good speaker 
or writer, but makes use of some that are peculiar 
or new. 

Eloquence has preceded the rules of rhetoric, as 
languages have been formed before grammar. Na- 
ture renders men eloquent in great interests, or 
great passions. He that is sensibly touched, sees 
things with a very different eye from the rest of 
mankind. All nature to him becomes an object of 
comparison and metaphor, without attending to it ; 
he throws life into all, and inspires his audience 
with a part of his own enthusiasm. 

It has been remarked, that the lower parts of 
mankind generally express themselves most figura- 
tively^ and that tropes are found in the most ordi- 
nary forms of conversation. Thus in every language 
the heart burns ; the courage is roused ; the eyes 
sparkle ;,the spirits are cast down ; passion inflames, 
pride swells, and pity sinks the soul. Nature every 



132 THE BEE. 

where speaks in those strong images, which from 
their frequency pass unnoticed. 

# Nature it is which inspires those rapturous enthu- 
siasms, those irresistible turns ; a strong passion, a 
pressing danger, calls up all the imagination, and 
gives the orator irresistible force. Thus a captain 
of the first caliph, seeing his soldiers fly, cried out, 
" Whither do you run ? the enemy are not there ! 
Ion have been told that the caliph is dead; but 
God is still living. He regards the brave, and will 
reward the courageous. Advance !" 

A man therefore may be called eloquent, who 
transfers the passion or sentiment with which he h 
moved himself into the breast of another ; and this 
definition appears the more just, as it comprehends* 
the graces of silence, and of action. An intimate 
persuasion of the truth to be proved is the senti- 
ment and passion to be transferred; and who 
effects this is truly possessed of the talent of elo-' 
quence. 

I have called eloquence a talent, and not an 
art, as so many rhetoricians have done, as art is ac- 
quired by exercise and study, and eloquence is the 
gift of nature. Rules will never make either a work 
or a discourse eloquent; they only serve to prevent 
faults, but not to introduce beauties ; to prevent 
those passages, which are truly eloquent and dic- 
tated by nature, from being blended with others, 
which might disgust, or at least abate our passion. 

What we clearly conceive, says Boileau, we can 
clearly express. I may add, that what is felt with 
emotion is expressed also with the same movements ; 
the words arise as readily to paint our emotions, as' 






Or ELOQUENCE. 133 

to express our thoughts Avith perspicuity. The cool 
care an orator takes to express passions which he 
does not feel, only prevents his rising into that 
passion he would seem to feel. In a word, to feel 
your subject thoroughly, and to speak without fear, 
are the only rules of eloquence, properly so called, 
w T hich I can offer. Examine a writer of genius on 
the most beautiful parts of his work, and he will 
always assure you that such passages are generally ■ 
those which have given him the least trouble, for 
they came as if by inspiration. To pretend that 
cold and didactic precepts will make a man elo- 
quent, is only to prove that he is incapable of 
eloquence. 

But, as in being perspicuous, it is necessary to 
have a full idea of the subject, so in being eloquent- 
it is not sufficient, if I may so express it, to feel by- 
halves. The orator should be strongly impressed, 
which is generally the effect of a tine and exquisite 
sensibility, and not that transient and superficial 
emotion which he excites in the greatest part of 
his audience. It is even impossible to affect the 
hearers in any great degree without being affected 
ourselves. In vain it will be objected, that many 
writers have had the art to inspire their readers 
with a passion for virtue, without being virtuous 
themselves ; since it may be answered, that sen- 
timents of virtue filled their minds at the time they 
were writing. They felt the inspiration strongly, 
while they praised justice, generosity, or good- 
nature; but unhappily for them, these passions 
might have been discontinued, when they laid 
down the pen. In vain wall it be objected again a 
that we can move without being moved 5 as we 



134 THE BEE. 

can convince without being convinced. It is much 
easier to deceive our reason than ourselves ; a 
trifling defect in reasoning may be overseen, and 
lead a man astray ; for it requires reason and time 
to detect the falsehood ; but our passions are not 
easily imposed upon ; our eyes, our ears, and every 
sense, are watchful to detect the imposture. 

No discourse can be eloquent that does not ele- 
vate the mind. Pathetic eloquence, it is true, has 
for its only object to affect ; but I appeal to men 
of sensibility, whether their pathetic feelings are 
not accompanied with some degree of elevation. 
We may then call eloquence and sublimity the 
same thing, since it is impossible to be one without 
feeling the other. Hence it follows, that we may 
be eloquent in any language, since no language 
refuses to paint those sentiments with which we 
are thoroughly impressed. What is usually called 
sublimity of style seems to be only an error. Elo- 
1 quence is not in the words, but in the subject; and 
in great concerns, the more simply any thing is ex- 
pressed, it is generally the more sublime. True 
eloquence does not consist, as the rhetoricians as- 
sure us, in saying great things in a sublime style, 
but in a simple style ; for there is, properly speak- 
ing, no such thing as a sublime style, the sublimity 
lies only in the things ; and when they are not so, 
the language may be turgid, affected, metaphorical,, 
but not affecting. 

What can be more simply expressed than the 
following extract from a celebrated preacher, and 
yet what was ever more sublime ? Speaking of the 
small number of the elect, he breaks out thus 
among his audience : "Let me suppose that this 



OF ELOQUENCE. 135 

was the last hour of us all ; that the heavens were 
opening over our heads ; that time was passed, and 
eternity begun : that Jesus Christ in all his glory, 
that man of sorrows in all his glory, appeared on 
the tribunal, and that we were assembled here to 
receive our final decree of life or death eternal. 
Let me ask, impressed with terror like you, and 
not separating my lot from yours, but putting my- 
self in the same situation in which we must all 
one day appear before God, our Judge : let me 
ask, if Jesus Christ should now appear to make 
the terrible separation of the just from the unjust, 
do you think the greatest number would be saved ? 
Do you think the number of the elect would even 
be equal to that of the sinners ? Do you think, if 
all our works were examined with justice, would 
he find ten just persons in this great assembly ? 
Monsters of ingratitude ! would he find one ?" Such 
passages as these are sublime in every language. 
The expression may be less striking, or more in- 
distinct, but the greatness of the idea still remains. 
In a word, we may be eloquent in every language 
and in every style, since elocution is only an as- 
sistant, but not a constitutor of eloquence. 

Of what use then, will it be said, are all the 
precepts given us upon this head both by the an- 
cients and moderns ? I answer, that they cannot 
make us eloquent, but they will certainly prevent 
us from becoming ridiculous. They can seldom 
procure a single beauty, but they may banish a 
thousand faults. The true method of an orator is 
not to attempt always to move, always to affect, 
to be continually sublime, but at proper intervals 
to give rest both to his own and the passions of his 



136 THE BEE. 

audience. In these periods of relaxation, or of 
preparation rather, rules may teach him to avoid 
any thing low, trivial, or disgusting. Thus criti- 
cism, properly speaking, is intended not to assist 
those parts which are sublime, but those which 
are naturally mean and humble, which are com- 
posed with coolness and caution, and where the 
orator rather endeavours not to offend, than at- 
tempts to please. - 

I have hitherto insisted more strenuously on that 
eloquence which speaks to the passions, as it is a 
species of oratory almost unknown in England. 
At the bar it is quite discontinued, and I think 
with justice. In the senate it is used but sparingly, 
as the orator speaks to enlightened judges. But 
in the pulpit, in which the orator should chiefly 
address the vulgar, it seems strange that it should 
be entirely laid aside. 

The vulgar of England are, without exception, 
the most barbarous and the most unknowing of 
any in Europe. A great part of their ignorance 
may be chiefly ascribed to their teachers, who with 
the most pretty gentlemen-like serenity deliver 
their cool discourses, and address the reason of 
men, who have never reasoned in all their lives. 
They are told of cause and effect, of beings 
self existent, and the universal scale of beings. 
They are informed of the excellence of the Bango- 
rian controversy, and the absurdity of an inter- 
mediate state. The spruce preacher reads his lu- 
cubration without lifting his nose from the text, 
and never ventures, to earn the shame of an en- 
thusiast. 

By this means, though his audience feel not one 



OF ELOQUENCE. 137 

word of all he says, he earns however among his 
acquaintance the character of a man of sense ; 
among his acquaintance only, did I say ? nay, even 
with his bishop. 

The polite of every country have several motives 
to induce them to a rectitude of action ; the love 
of virtue for its own sake, the shame of offending, 
and the desire of pleasing. The vulgar have but 
one, the enforcements of religion ; and yet those 
who should push this motive home to their hearts, 
are basely found to desert their post. They speak 
to the 'squire, the philosopher, and the pedant ; but 
the poor, those who really want instruction, are 
left uninstructed. 

I have attended most of our pulpit orators, who, 
it must be owned, write extremely well upon the 
text they assume. To give them their due also, they 
read their sermons with elegance and propriety; 
but this goes but a very short way in true eloquence. 
The speaker must be moved. In this, in this alone, 
our English divines are deficient. Were they to 
speak to a few calm dispassionate hearers, they 
certainly use the properest methods of address ; but 
their audience is chiefly composed of the poor, who 
must be influenced by motives of reward and pu- 
nishment, and whose only virtues lie in self-interest 
or fear. 

How then are such to be addressed ? not by stu- 
died periods or cold disquisitions : not by the la- 
bours of the head, but the honest spontaneous dic- 
tates of the heart. Neither writing a sermon with 
regular periods, and all the harmony of elegant ex- 
pression ; neither reading it with emphasis, pro- 
priety, and deliberation ; neither pleasing with me- 



138 THE BEE. 

taphor, simile, or rhetorical fustian ; neither argu- 
ing coolly, and untying consequences united in 
a priori, nor bundling up inductions a posteriori: 
neither pedantic jargon, nor academical trifling, can 
persuade the poor ; writing a discourse coolly in 
the closet, then getting it by memory, and deliver- 
ing it on Sundays, even that will not do. What then 
is to be done ? I know of no expedient to speak at 
once intelligibly and feelingly, except to under- 
stand the language. To be convinced of the truth 
of the object, to be perfectly acquainted with the 
subject in view, to prepossess yourself with a low 
opinion of your audience, and to do the rest extem- 
pore ; by this means strong expressions, new 
thoughts, rising passions, and the true declamatory 
style, will naturally ensue. 

Fine declamation does not consist in flowery pe- 
riods, delicate allusions, or musical cadences ; but 
in a plain, open, loose style, where the periods are 
long and obvious ; where the same thought is often 
exhibited in several points of view ; all this, strong 
sense, a good memory, and a small share of expe- 
rience, will furnish to every orator ; and without 
these, a clergyman may be called a fine preacher. 
judicious preacher, and a man of good sense : 
may make his hearers admire his understanding, 
but will seldom enlighten theirs. 

When I think of the Methodist preachers among 
us, how seldom they are endued with common sense, 
and yet how often and how justly they affect their 
hearers, I cannot avoid saying within myself : Had 
these been bred gentlemen, and been endued with 
even the meanest share of understanding, what 
might they not effect ! Did our bishops, who can 



en 

>ng J 
3e- j 

)llt 

1 



OF ELOQUENCE. , 139 

add dignity to their expostulations, testify the same 
fervour, and entreat their hearers, as well as argue, 
what might not be the consequence ! The vulgar, by 
which I mean the bulk of mankind, would then 
have a double motive to love religion, first from 
seeing its professors honoured here, and next from 
the consequences hereafter. At present the enthu- 
siasms of the poor are opposed to law ; did law 
conspire with their enthusiasms, we should not only 
be the happiest nation upon earth, but the wisest also. 

Enthusiasm in religion, which prevails only 
among the vulgar, should be the chief object of po- 
litics. A society of enthusiasts, governed by reason 
among the great, is the most indissoluble, the most 
virtuous, and the most efficient of its own decrees 
that can be imagined. Every country, possessed of 
any degree of strength, have had their enthusiasms, 
which ever serve as laws among the people. The 
Greeks had their Kalokagathia, the Romans their 
Amor Patrice, and we the truer and firmer bond 
of the Protestant religion. The principle is the 
same in all : how much then is it the duty of those, 
whom the law has appointed teachers of this reli- 
gion, to enforce its obligations, and to raise those 
enthusiasms among people, by which alone political 
society can subsist. 

From eloquence therefore the morals of our peo- 
ple are to expect emendation ; but how little can 
they be improved by men, who get into the pulpit 
rather to show their parts than convince us of the 
truth of what they deliver, who are painfully cor- 
rect in their style, musical in their tones, where 
every sentiment, every expression, seems the result 
of meditation and deep study ? 



140 THE BEE. 

Tillotson has been commended as the model of 
pulpit eloquence : thus far he should be imitated ; 
where he generally strives to convince rather than I 
to please ; but to adopt his long, dry, and some- 
times tedious discussions, which serve to amuse only 
divines, and are utterly neglected by the generality 
of mankind ; to praise the intricacy of his periods, 
which are too long to be spoken, to continue his 
cool phlegmatic manner of enforcing every truth, is- j 
certainly erroneous. As I said before, the good 
preacher should adopt no model, write no sermons, I 
study no periods ; let him but understand his sub- 
ject, the language he speaks, and be convinced of 
the truths he delivers. It is amazing to what heights 
eloquence of this kind may reach ! This is that 
eloquence the ancients represented as lightning, 
bearing down every opposer ; this the power 
which has turned whole assemblies into astonish- , 
ment, admiration, and awe, that is described by the 
torrent, the flame, and every other instance of irre- 
sistible impetuosity. 

But to attempt such noble heights belongs only to 
the truly great, or the truly good. To discard the 
lazy manner of reading sermons, or speaking ser- J 
mons by rote ; to set up singly against the opposi- 
tion of men, who are attached to their own errors, 
and to endeavour to be great instead of being pru- 
dent, are qualities we seldom see united. A minis- 
ter of the church of England, who may be pos- 
sessed of good sense and some hopes of preferment, 
will seldom give up such substantial advantages for 
the empty pleasure of improving society. By his ' 
present method he is liked by his friends, admired 
by his dependants, not displeasing to his bishop ; he 



CUSTOM AND LAWS COMPARED. 141 

lives as well, eats and sleeps as well, as if a real 
orator, and an eager assertor of his mission ; he will 
hardly therefore venture all this to be called per- 
haps an enthusiast ; nor will he depart from cus- 
toms established by the brotherhood, when, by such 
a conduct he only singles himself out for their con- 
tempt. 



CUSTOM AND LAWS COMPARED. 

What, say some, can give us a more contemptible 
idea of a large state than to find it mostly governed 
by custom ; to have few written laws, and no boun- 
daries to mark the jurisdiction between the senate 
and people ? Among the number who speak in this 
manner is the great Montesquieu, who asserts that 
every nation is free in proportion to the number of 
its written laws ; and seems to hint at a despotic 
and arbitrary conduct in the present king of Prussia, 
who has abridged the laws of his country into a 
very short compass. 

As Tacitus and Montesquieu happen to differ in 
sentiment upon a subject of so much importance, 
(for the Roman expressly asserts, that the state is 
generally vicious in proportion to the number of 
its laws) ; it will not be amiss to examine it a lit- 
tle more minutely, and see whether a state which, 
like England, is burthened with a multiplicity of 
written laws, or which, like Switzerland, Geneva, 
and some other republics, is governed by custom 
and the determination of the judge, is best. 

And to prove the superiority of custom to writ- 
ten law, we shall at least find history conspiring. 



142 THE BEE. 

Custom, or the traditional observance of the prac- 
tice of their forefathers, was what directed the Ro- 
mans as well in their public as private determina- 
tions. Custom was appealed to in pronouncing, 
sentence against a criminal, where part of the for- 
mulary was more majorum. So Sallust, speaking 
of the expulsion of Tarquin, says, mutato more,m& 
not lege mutatd; and Virgil, pacisque imponere 
morem. So that in those times of the empire in 
which the people retained their liberty, they were 
governed by custom ; when they sunk into op-" 
pression and tyranny, they were restrained by new 
laws, and the laws of tradition abolished. 

As getting the ancients on our side is half a vic- 
tory, it will not be amiss to fortify the argument 
with an observation of Chrysostom's : "That the 
enslaved are the fittest to be governed by laws, and 
free men by custom." Custom partakes of the na- 
ture of parental injunction ; it is kept by the peo- 
ple themselves, and observed with a willing obe-- 
dience. The observance of it must therefore be a 
mark of freedom, and coming originally to a state 
from the reverenced founders of its liberty, will be 
an encouragement and assistance to it in the de- 
fence of that blessing ; but a conquered people, a 
nation of slaves, must pretend to none of this free- 
dom, or these happy distinctions ; having, by dege- 
neracy, lost all right to their brave forefathers' free 
institutions, their masters will, in a policy, take the 
forfeiture ; and the fixing a conquest must be done 
by giving laws, which may every moment serve to 
remind the people enslaved, of their conquerors, 
nothing being more dangerous than to trust a late- 
subdued people with old customs, that presently 



CUSTOM AND LAWS COMPARED. 143 

upbraid their degeneracy, and provoke them to re- 
volt. 

The wisdom of the Roman republic, in their ve- 
neration for custom, and backwardness to intro- 
duce a new law, was perhaps the cause of their 
long continuance, and of the virtues of which they 
have set the world so many examples. But to 
show in what that wisdom consists, it may be pro- 
per to observe, that the benefit of new- written laws 
is merely confined to the consequences of their ob- 
servance ; but customary laws, keeping up a gene- 
ration for the founders, engage men in the imita- 
tion of their virtues as well as policy. To this may 
be ascribed the religious regard the Romans paid 
to their forefathers' memory, and their adhering 
for so many ages to the practice of the same vir- 
tues, which nothing contributed more to efface than 
the introduction of a voluminous body of new laws 
over the neck of venerable custom. 

The simplicity, conciseness, and antiquity of cus- 
tom, gives an air of majesty and immutability that 
inspires awe and veneration ; but new laws are too 
apt to be voluminous, perplexed, and indetermi- 
nate ; whence must necessarily arise neglect, con- 
tempt, and ignorance. 

As every human institution is subject to gross im- 
perfections, so laws must necessarily be liable to 
the same inconveniences, and their defects soon 
discovered. Thus, through the weakness of one 
part, all the rest are liable to be brought into con- 
tempt. But such weaknesses in a custom, for very 
obvious reasons, evade an examination^ besides, a 
friendly prejudice always stands up in their fa- 



144 THE BEE. 

But let us suppose a new law to be perfectly 
equitable and necessary; yet, if the procurers of 
it have betrayed a conduct that confesses by-ends 
and private motives, the disgust to the circum- 
stances disposes us, unreasonably indeed, to an ir- 
reverence of the law itself; but we are indulgently 
blind to the most visible imperfections of an old 
custom. Though we perceive the defects ourselves, 
yet we remain persuaded, that our wise forefathers 
had good reason for what they did; and though 
such motives no longer continue, the benefit will 
still go along with the observance, though we don't 
know how. It is thus the Roman lawyers speak : 
" Non omnium, quae a majoribus constituta sunt, 
ratio reddi potest, et ideo rationes eorum quae con- 
stituuntur inquiri non oportet ; alioquin multa ex 
his quae certa sunt subvertuntur." 

Those laws which preserve to themselves the 
greatest love and observance, must needs be best j 
but custom, as it executes itself, must be necessa- 
rily superior to written laws in this respect, which 
are to be executed by another. Thus nothing can 
be more certain, than that numerous written laws 
are a sign of a degenerate community, and are fre- 
quently not the consequences of vicious morals in 
a state, but the causes. 

Hence we see how much greater benefit it would 
be to the state rather to abridge than increase its 
laws. We every day find them increasing ; acts and 
reports, which may be termed the acts of judges, 
are every day becoming more voluminous, and 
loading the subject with new penalties. 

Laws ever increase in number and severity, until 
they at length are strained so tight as to break 



THE MIDDLING CLASS OF PEOPLE. 145 

themselves. Such was the case of the latter em- 
pire, whose laws were at length become so strict, 
that the barbarous invaders did not bring servitude 
but liberty. 



OF THE PRIDE AND LUXURY 
OF THE 

MIDDLING CLASS OF PEOPLE. 

Of all the follies and absurdities, under which this 
great metropolis labours, there is not one, I be- 
lieve, that at present appears in a more glaring and 
ridiculous light, than the pride and luxury of the 
middling class of people ; their eager desire of be- 
ing seen in a sphere far above their capacities and 
circumstances, is daily, nay hourly, instanced by the 
prodigious numbers of mechanics, who flock to the 
races, and gaming-tables, brothels, and all public 
diversions this fashionable town affords. 

You shall see a grocer, or a tallow-chandler, 
sneak from behind the counter, clap on a laced coat 
and a bag, fly to the E. O. table, throw away fifty 
pieces with some sharping man of quality ; while 
his industrious wife is selling a penny-worth of su- 
gar, or a pound of candles, to support her fashion- 
able spouse in his extravagances. 

I was led into this reflection by an odd adven- 
ture, which happened to me the other day at Ep- 
som races, whither I went, not through any desire 
I do assure you of laying betts or winning thou- 
sands, but at the earnest request of a friend, who 

H 



146 THE BEE. 

had long indulged the curiosity of seeing the sport, 
very natural for an Englishman. When we had 
arrived at the course, and had taken several turns 
to observe the different objects that made up this 
whimsical group, a figure suddenly darted by us, 
mounted and dressed in all the elegance of those 
polite gentry, who come to show you they have a 
little money, and rather than pay their just debts 
at home, generously come abroad to bestow it on 
gamblers and pickpockets. As I had not an op. 
portunity of viewing his face till his return, I gently 
walked after him, and met him as he came back ; 
when, to my no small surprise, I beheld in this gay 
Narcissus the visage of Jack Varnish, an humble 
vender of prints. Disgusted at the sight, I pulled 
my friend by the sleeve, pressed him to return 
home, telling him all the way, that I was so en- 
raged at the fellow's impudence, I was resolved ne- 
ver to lay out another penny with him. 

And now, pray, sir, let me beg of you to give 
this a place in your paper, that Mr. Varnish may- 
understand he mistakes the thing quite, if he ima- 
gines horse-racing recommendable in a tradesman ; 
and that he, who is revelling every night in the 
arms of a common strumpet (though blessed with 
an indulgent wife) when he ought to be minding 
his business, will never thrive in this world. He 
will find himself soon mistaken, his finances de- 
crease, his friends shun him, customers fall off, and 
himself thrown into a gaol. I would earnestly recom- 
mend this adage to every mechanic in London, 
" Keep your shop, and your shop will keep you." 
A strict observance of these words will, I am sure, 
in time gain them estates. Industry is the road to 



SABINUS AND OLINDA. 147 

wealth, and honesty to happiness ; and he, who 
strenuously endeavours to pursue them both, may 
never fear the critic's lash, or the sharp cries of pe- 
nury and want. 



SABINUS AND OLINDA. 

In a fair, rich, and flourishing country, whose clifts 
are washed by the German ocean, lived Sabinus, a 
youth formed by nature to make a conquest where- 
ever he thought proper; but the constancy of his 
disposition fixed him only with Olinda. He was 
indeed superior to her in fortune, but that defect on 
her side was so amply supplied by her merit, that 
none was thought more worthy of his regards than 
she. He loved her, he was beloved by her ; and in 
a short time, by joining hands publicly, they avowed 
the union of their hearts. But alas ! none, however 
fortunate, however happy, are exempt from the 
shafts of envy, and the malignant effects of ungo- 
verned appetite. How unsafe, how detestable are 
they who have this fury for their guide ! How cer- 
tainly will it lead them from themselves, and plunge 
them in errors they would have shuddered at, even 
in apprehension ! Ariana, a lady of many amiable 
qualities, very nearly allied to Sabinus, and highly 
esteemed by him, imagined herself slighted, and in- 
juriously treated, since his marriage with Olinda. 
By incautiously suffering this jealousy to corrode in 
her breast, she began to give a loose to passion ; 
she forgot those many virtues, for which she had 
been so long and so justly applauded. Causeless 
suspicion and mistaken resentment betrayed her 



148 THE BEE. 

into all the gloom of discontent ; she sighed without 
ceasing ; the happiness of others gave her intolerable 
pain ; she thought of nothing but revenge. How 
unlike what she was, the cheerful, the prudent, the 
compassionate Ariana ! 

She continually laboured to disturb an union so 
firmly, so affectionately founded, and planned every 
scheme which she thought most likely to disturb it. 

Fortune seemed willing to promote her unjust in- 
tentions; the circumstances of Sabinus had been 
long embarrassed by a tedious law-suit, and the 
court determining the cause unexpectedly in favour 
of his opponent, it sunk his fortune to the lowest 
pitch of penury from the highest affluence. From 
the nearness of relationship, Sabinus expected from 
Ariana those assistances his present situation re- 
quired ; but she was insensible to all his entreaties, 
and the justice of every remonstrance, unless he 
first separated from Olinda, whom she regarded 
with detestation. Upon a compliance with her de- 
sires in this respect, she promised that her fortune, 
her interest, and her all, should be at his command. 
Sabinus was shocked at the proposal ; he loved his 
wife with inexpressible tenderness, and refused 
those offers with indignation, which were to be pur- 
chased at so high a price. Ariana was no less dis- 
pleased to find her offers rejected, and gave a loose 
to all that warmth, which she had long endeavoured 
to suppress. Reproach generally produces recrimi- 
nation; the quarrel rose to such a height, that 
Sabinus was marked for destruction; and the very 
next day, upon the strength of an old family debt, 
he was sent to gaol, with none but Olinda to com- 
fort him in his miseries, In this mansion of distress 



SABINUS AND OLINDA. 149 

they lived together with resignation and even with 
comfort. She provided the frugal meal; and he 
read to her while employed in the little offices of 
domestic concern. Their fellow prisoners admired 
their contentment, and whenever they had a desire 
of relaxing into mirth, and enjoying those little 
comforts that a prison affords, Sabinus and Olinda 
were sure to be of the party. Instead of reproach- 
ing each other for their mutual wretchedness, they 
both lightened it, by bearing each a share of the 
load imposed by Providence. Whenever Sabinus 
showed the least concern on his dear partner's ac- 
count, she conjured him by the love he bore her, by 
those tender ties which now united them for ever, 
not to discompose himself ; that so long as his af- 
fection lasted, she defied all the ills of fortune, and 
every loss of fame or friendship ; that nothing could 
make her miserable but his seeming to want happi- 
ness, nothing pleased but his sympathising with her 
pleasure. A continuance in prison soon robbed 
them of the little they had left, and famine began 
to make its horrid appearance ; yet still was neither 
found to murmur : they both looked upon their lit- 
tle boy, who, insensible of their or his own distress, 
was playing about the room, with inexpressible yet 
silent anguish, when a messenger came to inform 
them that Ariana was dead, and that her will in fa- 
vour of a very distant relation, who was now in an- 
other country, might easily be procured and burnt, 
in which case all her large fortune would revert to 
him, as being the next heir at law. 

A proposal of so base a nature filled our unhappy 
couple with horror; they ordered the messenger 
immediately out of the room, and falling upon each 



150 THE BEE. 

other's neck indulged an agony of sorrow ; for now 
even all hopes of relief were banished. The mes- 
senger who made the proposal, however, was only a 
spy sent by Ariana to sound the dispositions of a 
man she loved at once and persecuted. This lady, 
though warped by wrong passions, was naturally 
kind, judicious, and friendly. She found that all ■ 
her attempts to shake the constancy or the integrity 
of Sabinus were ineffectual ; she had therefore be- 
gun to reflect, and to wonder how she could so long 
and so unprovoked injure such uncommon fortitude 
and affection. 

She had from the next room herself heard the re- 
ception given to the messenger, and could not avoid 
feeling all the force of superior virtue ; she there- 
fore re-assumed her former goodness of heart ; she 
came into the room with tears in her eyes, and ac- 
knowledged the severity of her former treatment. 
She bestowed her first care in providing them all 
the necessary supplies, and acknowledged them as 
the most deserving heirs of her fortune. From this 
moment Sabinus enjoyed an uninterrupted happi- 
ness with Olinda, and both were happy in the 
friendship and assistance of Ariana, who, dying 
soon after, left them in possession of a large estate ; 
and in her last moments confessed that virtue was 
the only path to true glory; and that, however 
innocence may for a time be depressed, a steady 
perseverance will in time lead it to a certain vic- 
tory, 



ON THE TEMPER OF THE ENGLISH. 151 

THE SENTIMENTS OF A FRENCHMAN 

ON THE 

TEMPER OF THE ENGLISH. 

Nothing is so uncommon among the English as 
that easy affability, that instant method of acquaint- 
ance, or that cheerfulness of disposition, which 
make in France the charm of everj" society. Yet 
in this gloomy reserve they seem to pride them- 
selves, and think themselves less happy, if obliged 
to be more social. One may assert, without wrong- 
ing them, that they do not study the method of 
going through life with pleasure and tranquillity like 
the French. Might not this be a proof that they 
are not so much philosophers as they imagine ? 
Philosophy is no more than the art of making our- 
selves happy ; that is, of seeking pleasure in regu- 
larity, and reconciling what we owe to society with 
what is due to ourselves. 

This cheerfulness, which is the characteristic of 
our nation, in the eye of an Englishman passes al- 
most for folly. But is their gloominess a greater 
mark of their wisdom ? and folly against folly, is 
not the most cheerful sort the best ? If our gaiety 
makes them sad, they ought not to find it strange, 
if their seriousness makes us laugh. 

As this disposition to levity is not familiar to 
them, and as they look on every thing as a fault 
which they do not find at home, the English who 
live among us are hurt by it. Several of their au- 
thors reproach us with it as a vice, or at least as a 
ridicule. 



152 THE BEE. 

Mr. Addison styles us a comic nation. In my 
opinion it is not acting the philosopher on this 
point, to regard as a fault that quality, which con- 
tributes most to the pleasure of society and happi- 
ness of life. Plato, convinced that whatever makes 
men happier, makes them better, advises to neglect 
nothing that may excite and convert to an early ha- 
bit this sense of joy in children. Seneca places it 
in thej first rank of good things. Certain it is, at 
least, that gaiety may be a concomitant of all sorts 
of virtue, but that there are some vices with which 
it is incompatible. 

As to him who laughs at every thing, and him 
who laughs at nothing, neither of them has sound 
judgment. All the difference I find between them 
is, that the last is constantly the most unhappy. 
Those who speak against cheerfulness prove nothing 
else but that they were born melancholic, and that 
in their hearts they rather envy than condemn that 
levity they affect to despise. 

The Spectator, whose constant object was the 
good of mankind in general, and of his own nation 
in particular, should, according to his own princi- 
ples, place cheerfulness among the most desirable 
qualities ; and probably, whenever he contradicts 
himself in this particular, it is only to conform to 
the tempers of the people whom he addresses. He 
asserts that gaiety is one great obstacle to the pru- 
dent conduct of women. But are those of a melan- 
cholic temper, as the English women generally are, 
less subject to the foibles of love ? I am acquainted 
with some doctors in this science, to whose judg- 
ment I would more willingly refer than to his. And 
perhaps, in reality, persons naturally of a gay tern-. 






ON THE TEMPER OF THE ENGLISH. J 53 

per are too easily taken off by different objects, to 
give themselves up to all the excesses of this pas- 
sion. 

Mr. Hobbes, a celebrated philosopher of his na- 
tion, maintains that laughing proceeds from our 
pride alone. This is only a paradox, if asserted 
of laughing in general, and only argues that misan- 
thropical disposition for which he was remarkable. 
To bring the causes he assigns for laughing under 
suspicion, it is sufficient to remark that proud peo- 
ple are commonly those who laugh least. Gravity 
is the inseparable companion of pride. To say that 
a man is vain, because the humour of a writer, or 
the buffooneries of a harlequin excite his laughter, 
would be advancing a great absurdity. We should 
distinguish between laughter inspired by joy, and 
that which arises from mockery. The malicious 
sneer is improperly called laughter. It must be 
owned that pride is the parent of such laughter as 
this ; but this is in itself vicious ; whereas, the 
other sort has nothing in its principles or effects 
that deserves condemnation. We find this amiable 
in others, and is it unhappiness to feel a disposition 
towards it in ourselves ? 

When I see an Englishman laugh, I fancy I rather 
see him hunting after joy than having caught it ; 
and this is more particularly remarkable in their 
women, whose tempers are inclined to melancholy. 
A laugh leaves no more traces on their countenance 
than a flash of lightning on the face of the heavens. 
The most laughing air is instantly succeeded by the 
most gloomy. One would be apt to think that their 
souls open with difficulty to joy, or at least that joy 
is not pleased with its habitation there. 

h 2 



154 THE BEE. 

In regard to fine raillery, it must be allowed that 
it is not natural to the English, and therefore those 
who endeavour at it make but an ill figure. Some 
of their authors have candidly confessed, that plea- 
santry is quite foreign to their character ; but, ac- 
cording to the reason they give, they lose nothing 
by this confession. Bishop Sprat gives the follow- 
ing one : " The English,'* says he, " have too much 
bravery to be derided, and too much virtue and ho- 
nour to mock others. ,, 



No. 8. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 24, 1759. 



ON DECEIT AND FALSEHOOD. 

The following account is so judiciously conceived^ 
that I am convinced the reader will be more pleased 
with it than with any thing of mine , so I shall mak< 
no apology for this new publication. 

TO THE AUTHOR OF THE BEE. 



■. 



Sir, 
Deceit and falsehood have ever been an over-match . 
for truth, and followed and admired by the majority 
of mankind. If we inquire after the reason of this, 
we shall find it in our own imaginations, which are 
amused and entertained with the perpetual novelty 
and variety that fiction affords, but find no manner 
of delight in the uniform simplicity of homely truth, 
which still sues them under the same appearance. 



ON DECEIT AND FALSEHOOD. 155 

He therefore that would gain our hearts must 
make his court to our fancy, which being sovereign 
controller of the passions, lets them loose, and 
inflames them more or less, in proportion to the 
force and efficacy of the first cause, which is ever 
the more powerful the more new it is. Thus in 
mathematical demonstrations themselves, thougli 
they seem to aim at pure truth and instruction, and 
to be addressed to our reason alone, yet I think it 
is pretty plain, that our understanding is only made 
a drudge to gratify our invention and curiosity, and 
we are pleased not so much because our discoveries 
are certain, $s because they are new. 

I do not deny but the world is still pleased with 
things that pleased it many ages ago ; but it should 
at the same time be considered, that man is natu- 
rally so much of a logician, as to distinguish be- 
tween matters that are plain and easy, and others 
that are hard and inconceivable. What we under- 
stand we overlook and despise, and what we know 
nothing of we hug and delight in. Thus there are 
such things as perpetual novelties ; for we are 
pleased no longer than we are amazed, and nothing 
so much contents us as that which confounds us. 

This weakness in human nature gave occasion to 
a party of men to make such gainful markets as 
they have done of our credulity. All objects and 
facts whatever now ceased to be what they had been 
for ever before, and received what make and mean- 
ing it was found convenient to put upon them : 
what people ate, and drank, and saw, was not what 
they ate, and drank, and saw, but something fur- 
ther which they were fond of, because they were 
ignorant of it. In short, nothing was itself, but 



156 THE BEE. 

something beyond itself ; and by these artifices and 
amusements the heads of the world were so turned 
and intoxicated, that at last there was scarcely a 
sound set of brains left in it. 

In this state of giddiness and infatuation, it was 
no very hard task to persuade the already deluded, 
that there was an actual society and communion 
between human creatures and spiritual daemons. 
And when they had thus put people into the power 
and clutches of the devil, none but they alone could 
have either skill or strength to bring the prisoners 
back again. 

But so far did they carry this dreadful drollery, 
and so fond were they of it, that to maintain it and 
themselves in profitable repute, they literally sacri- 
ficed for it, and made impious victims of number- 
less old women and other miserable persons, who 
either through ignorance could not say what they 
were bid to say, or through madness said what they 
should not have said. Fear and stupidity made 
them incapable of defending themselves, and frenzy 
and infatuation made them confess guilty impossi- 
bilities, which produced cruel sentences, and then 
inhuman executions. 

Some of these wretched mortals finding them- 
selves either hateful or terrible to all, and befriend- 
ed by none, and perhaps wanting the common ne- 
cessaries of life, came at last to abhor themselves 
as much as they were abhorred by others, and grew 
willing to be burnt or hanged out of a world, which 
was no other to them than a scene of persecution 
and anguish. 

Others of strong imaginations, and little under- 
standings, were by positive and repeated charges 



ON DECEIT AND FALSEHOOD. 157 

against them, of committing mischievous and super- 
natural facts and villanies, deluded to judge of them- 
selves by the judgment of their enemies, whose 
weakness or malice prompted them to be accusers. 
And many have been condemned as witches and 
dealers with the devil, for no other reason but their 
knowing more than those who accused, tried, and 
passed sentence upon them. 

In these cases credulity is a much greater error 
than infidelity, and it is safer to believe nothing 
than too much. A man, that believes little or no- 
thing of witchcraft, will destroy nobody for being 
under the imputation of it ; and so far he certainly 
acts with humanity to others, and safety to himself ; 
but he that credits all, or too much upon that ar- 
ticle, is obliged, if he acts consistently with his per- 
suasion, to kill all those whom he takes to be the 
killers of mankind ; and such are witches. It would 
be a jest and a contradiction to say, that he is for 
sparing them who are harmless of that tribe, since the 
received notion of their supposed contract with the 
devil implies that they are engaged by covenant and 
inclination to do all the mischief they possibly can. 

I have heard many stories of witches, and read 
many accusations against them ; but I do not re- 
member any that would have induced me to have 
consigned over to the halter or the flame any of 
those deplorable wretches, who, as they share our 
likeness and nature, ought to share our compassion, 
as persons cruelly accused of impossibilities. 

But we love to delude ourselves, and often fancy 
or forge an effect, and then set ourselves as gravely 
as ridiculously to find out the cause. Thus, for ex- 
ample, when a dream or the hyp has given us false 



158 THE BEE, 

terrors, or imaginary pains, we immediately con- 
clude that the infernal tyrant owes us a spite, and 
inflicts his wrath and stripes upon us by the hands 
of some of his sworn servants amongst us. For 
this end an old woman is promoted to a seat in 
Satan's privy council, and appointed his executioner 
in chief within her district. So ready and civil are 
we to allow the devil the dominion over us, and 
even to provide him with butchers and hangmen of 
our own make and nature. 

^ I have often wondered why we did not, in choo- 
sing our proper officers for Beelzebub, lay the lot ra- 
ther upon men than women, the former being more 
bold and robust, and more equal to that bloody ser- 
vice ; but upon inquiry I find it has been so ordered 
for two reasons ; first, the men, having the whole 
direction of this affair, are wise enough to slip their 
own necks out of the collar ; and, secondly, an old 
woman is grown by custom the most avoided and 
most unpitied creature under the sun, the very name 
carrying contempt and satire in it. And so far in- 
deed we pay but an uncourtly sort of respect to Satan, 
in sacrificing to him nothing but the dry sticks of 
humau nature. 

We have a wondering quality within us, which 
finds huge gratification when we see strange feats 
done, and cannot at the same time see the doer, or 
the cause. Such actions are sure to be attributed to 
some witch or demon ; for if we come to find they 
are slily performed by artists of our own species, 
and by causes purely natural, our delight dies with 
our amazement. 

It is therefore one of the most unthankful offices 
in the world to go about to expose the mistaken 



ON DECEIT AND FALSEHOOD. 159 

notions of witchcraft and spirits ; it is robbing man- 
kind of a valuable imagination, and of the privilege 
of being deceived. Those, who at any time under- 
took the task, have always met with rough treat- 
ment and ill language for their pains, and seldom 
escaped the imputation of atheism, because they 
would not allow the devil to be too powerful for the 
Almighty. For my part, I am so much a heretic as 
to believe, that God Almighty, and not the devil, 
governs the world. 

If we inquire what are the common marks and 
symptoms by which witches are discovered to be 
such, we shall see how reasonably and mercifully 
those poor creatures were burnt and hanged, who 
unhappily fell under that name. 

In the first place, the old woman must be pro- 
digiously ugiy : her eyes hollow and red, her face 
shrivelled ; she goes double, and her voice trembles . 
It frequently happens, that this rueful figure fright- 
ens a child into the palpitation of the heart ■ home 
he runs, and tells his mamma that goody such a one 
looked at him, and he is very ill. The good woman 
' cries but, her dear baby is bewitched, and sends for 
the parson and the constable. 

It is, moreover, necessary, that she be very poor. 
It is true, her master Satan has mines and hidden 
treasures in his gift ; but no matter, she is for all 
that very poor, and lives on alms. She goes to Sisly 
the cook-maid for a dish of broth, or the heel of a 
loaf, and Sisly denies them to her. The old woman 
goes away muttering, and perhaps in less than a 
month's time Sisly hears the voice of a cat, and 
strains her ancles, which are certain signs that she 
is bewitched. 



160 THE BEE. 

A farmer sees his cattle die of the murrain, and 
the sheep of the rot, and poor goody is forced to be 
the cause of their death, because she was seen talk- 
ing to herself the evening before such an ewe depart- 
ed, and had been gathering sticks at the side of the 
wood where such a cow ran mad. 

The old woman has always for her companion an 
old gray cat, which is a disguised devil too, and 
confederate with goody in works of darkness. They 
frequently go journeys into Egypt upon a broom- 
staff in half an hour's time, and now aud then 
goody and her cat change shapes. The neighbours 
often overhear them in deep and solemn discourse 
together, plotting some dreadful mischief you may 
be sure. 

There is a famous way of trying witches, recom- 
mended by King James I. The old woman is tied 
hand and foot, and thrown into the river, and if 
she swims she is guilty, and taken out and burnt ; 
but if she is innocent, she sinks, and is only 
drowned. 

The witches are said to meet their master fre- 
quently in churches and church-yards. I wonder 
at the boldness of Satan and his congregation, in 
revelling and playing mounteback farces on conse- 
crated ground ; and I have as often wondered at 
the oversight and ill policy of some people in allow- 
ing it possible. 

It would have been both dangerous and impious 
to have treated this subject at one certain time in 
this ludicrous manner. It used w be managed with 
all possible gravity, and even terror ; and indeed it 
was made a tragedy in all its parts, and thousands 
were sacrificed, or rather murdered, by such evi- 



THE AUGUSTAN AGE OF ENGLAND. 161 

dence and colours, as, God be thanked, we are at 
this day ashamed of. An old woman may be mi- 
serable now, and not be hanged for it. 



AN ACCOUNT OF THE 

AUGUSTAN AGE OF ENGLAND. 

The history of the rise of language and learning is 
calculated to gratify curiosity rather than to satisfy 
the understanding. An account of that period only, 
when language and learning arrived at its highest 
perfection, is the most conducive to real improve- 
ment, since it at once raises emulation, and directs 
to the proper objects. The age of Leo X. in Italy 
is confessed to be the Augustan age with them. The 
French writers seem agreed to give the same appel- 
lation to that of Louis XIV. but the English are yet 
undetermined with respect to themselves. 

Some have looked upon the writers in the times 
of Queen Elizabeth as the true standard for future 
imitation; others have descended to the reign of 
James I. and others still lower, to that of Charles 
II. Were I to be permitted to offer an opinion upon 
this subject, I should readily give my vote for the 
reign of Queen Anne, or some years before that 
period. It was then that taste was united to genius ; 
and, as before, our writers charmed with their 
strength of thinking, so then they pleased with 
strength and grace united. In that period of British 
glory, though no writer attracts our attention 
singly, yet, like stars lost in each other's bright- 
ness, they have cast such a lustre upon the age 



162 THE BEE. 

in which they lived, that their minutest transac- 
tions will be attended to by posterity with a greater 
eagerness than the most important occurrences of 
even empires, which have been transacted in greater 
obscurity. 

At that period there seemed to be a just balance 
between patronage and the press. Before it, men 
were little esteemed whose only merit was genius; 
and since, men who can prudently be content to 
catch the public, are certain of living without de- 
pendence. But the writers of the period of which 
I am speaking were sufficiently esteemed by the 
great, and not rewarded enough by booksellers, to 
set them above independence. Fame consequently 
then was the truest road to happiness ; a sedulous 
attention to the mechanical business of the day 
makes the present never-failing resource. 

The age of Charles II. which our countrymen 
term the age of wit and immorality, produced some 
writers that at once served to improve our language 
and corrupt our hearts. The king himself had a 
large share of knowledge, and some wit, and his 
courtiers were generally men, who had be*en brought 
up in the school of affliction and experience. For 
this reason, when the sunshine of their fortune re- 
turned, they gave too great a loose to pleasure, and 
language was by them cultivated only as a mode of 
elegance. Hence it became more enervated, and 
was dashed with quaintnesses, which gave the pub- 
lic writings of those times a very illiberal air. 

L'Estrange, who was by no means so bad a writer 
as some have represented him, was sunk in party 
faction, and having generally the worst side of the 
argument, often had recourse to scolding, pertness, 



THE AXfGUSTAN AGE OF ENGLAND. 163 

and consequently a vulgarity, that discovers itself 
even in his more liberal compositions. He was the 
first writer who regularly enlisted himself under the 
banners of a party for pay, and fought for it through 
right and wrong for upwards of forty literary cam- 
paigns. This intrepidity gained him the esteem of 
Cromwell himself, and the papers he wrote even 
just before the revolution, almost with the rope 
about his neck, have his usual characters of impu- 
dence and perseverance. That he was a standard- 
writer cannot be disowned, because a great many 
very eminent authors formed their style by his. 
But his standard was far from being a just one ; 
though, when party considerations are set aside, he 
certainly was possessed of elegance, ease, and per- 
spicuity. 

Dryden, though a great and undisputed genius, 
had the same cast as L' Estrange. Even his plays 
discover him to be a party man, and the same prin- 
ciple infects his style in subjects of the lightest na- 
ture ; but the English tongue, as it stands at pre- 
sent, is greatly his debtor. He first gave it regular 
harmony, and discovered its latent powers. It was 
his pen that formed the Congreves, the Priors, and 
the Addisons, who succeeded him ; and had it not 
been for Dryden, we never should have known a 
Pope, at least in the meridian lustre he now dis- 
plays. But Dryden's excellences as a writer were 
not confined to poetry alone. There is in his 
prose writings an ease and elegance that have 
never yet been so well united in works of taste or 
criticism. 

The English language owes very little to Otway, 
though, next to Shakspeare, the greatest genius 



164 THE BEE. 

England ever produced in tragedy. His excellences 
lay in painting directly from nature, in catching 
every motion just as it rises from the soul, and in 
all the powers of the moving and pathetic. He ap- j 
pears to have had no learning, no critical know- 
ledge, and to have lived in great distress. When 
he died (which he did in an obscure house near the 
Minories) he had about him the copy of a tragedy, 
which it seems he had sold for a trifle to Bentley 
the bookseller. I have seen an advertisement at ] 
the end of one of L'Estrange's political papers, of- 
fering a reward to any one who should bring it to 
his shop. What an invaluable treasure was there * 
irretrievably lost, by the ignorance and neglect of j 
the age he lived in ! 

Lee had a great command of language, and vast j 
force of expression, both which the best of our suc- 
ceeding dramatic poets thought proper to take for ] 
their models. Rowe in particular seems to have 
caught that manner, though in all other respects 
inferior. The other poets of that reign contributed 
but little towards improving the English tongue, and ; 
it is not certain whether they did not injure rather 
than improve it. Immorality has its cant as well as I 
party, and many shocking expressions now crept 
into the language, and became the transient fashion 
of the day. The upper galleries, by the prevalence 
of party-spirit, were courted with great assiduity, 
and a horse-laugh following ribaldry was the highest 
instance of applause, the chastity as well as energy 
of diction being overlooked or neglected. 

Virtuous sentiment was recovered, but energy of \ 
style never was. This, though disregarded in plays ! 
and party writings, still prevailed amongst men of 



THE AUGUSTAN AGE OF ENGLAND. 165 

character and business. The dispatches of sir 
Richard Fanshaw, sir William Godolphin, lord 
Arlington, and many other ministers of state, are 
all of them, with respect to diction, manly, bold, 
and nervous. Sir William Temple, though a man 
of no learning, had great knowledge and experience. 
He wrote always like a man of sense and a gentle- 
man, and his style is the model by which the best 
prose writers in the reign of queen Anne formed 
theirs. The beauties of Mr. Locke's style, though 
not so much celebrated, are as striking as that of 
his understanding. He never says more nor less 
than he ought, and never makes use of a word that 
he could have changed for a better. The same ob- 
servation holds good of Dr. Samuel Clarke. 

Mr. Locke was a philosopher ; his antagonist 
Stillingfleet, bishop of Worcester, was a man of 
learning, and therefore the contest between them 
was unequal. The clearness of Mr. Locke's head 
renders his language perspicuous, the learning of 
Stillingfleet's clouds his. This is an instance of the 
superiority of good sense over learning towards the 
improvement of every language. 

There is nothing peculiar to the language of 
Archbishop Tillotson, but his manner of writing is 
inimitable ; for one who reads him, wonders why 
he himself did not think and speak in that very man- 
ner. The turn of his periods is agreeable, though 
artless, and every thing he says seems to flow spon- 
taneously from inward conviction. Barrow, though 
greatly hrs superior in learning, falls short of him 
in other respects. 

The time seems to be at hand, when justice will 
be done to Mr. Cowley's prose, as well as poetical 



166 



THE BEE. 



writings ; and though his friend doctor Sprat, bishop 
(rf Rochester, in his diction falls far short of the 
abilities for which he has been celebrated, yet there 
is sometimes a happy flow in his periods, some- 
thing that looks like eloquence. The style of his 
successor, Atterbury, has been much commended 
by his friends, which always happens when a man 
distinguishes himself in party, but there is in it 
nothing extraordinary. Even the speech which he 
made for himself at the bar of the House of Lords, 
before he was sent into exile, is void of eloquence, 
though it has been cried up by his friends to such 
a degree, that his enemies have suffered it to pass 
uncensured. 

The philosophical manner of lord Shaftesbury's, 
writing is nearer to that of Cicero than any En* 
hsh author has yet arrived at, but perhaps, had 
Cicero written in English, his composition would 
have greatly exceeded that of our countryman. 
The diction of the latter is beautiful, but such 
beauty, as upon nearer inspection carries with it 
evident symptoms of affectation. This has been 
attended with very disagreeable consequences. No- 
thing is so easy to copy as affectation, and his lord- 
ship s rank and fame have procured him more imi- ' 
tators in Britain than any other writer I know all j 
faithfully preserving his blemishes, but unhappily 
not one of his beauties. 

Mr. Trenchard and Dr. Davenant were political 
writers of great abilities in diction, and their pam- 
phlets are now standards in that way of writing 
They were followed by Dean Swift, who, though 
m^ other respects far their superior, never could 
arise to that manliness and clearness of dicti6n 



THE AUGUSTAN AGE OF ENGLAND. 167 

in political writing for which they were so justly 
famous. 

They were all of them exceeded by the late 
lord Bolingbroke, whose strength lay in that pro- 
vince ; for as a philosopher and a critic he was ill 
qualified, being destitute of virtue for the one, and 
of learning for the other. His writings against sir 
Robert Walpole are incomparably the best part of 
his works. The personal and perpetual antipathy 
he had for that family, to whose places he thought 
his own abilities had a right, gave a glow to his 
style, and an edge to his manner, that never yet 
have been equalled in political writing. His mis- 
fortunes and disappointments gave his mind a turn, 
which his friends mistook for philosophy, and at one 
time of life he had the art to impose the same be- 
lief upon some of his enemies. His idea of a 
patriot king, which I reckon (as indeed it was) 
amongst his writings against sir Robert Walpole, is 
a masterpiece of diction. Even in his other works 
his style is excellent ; but where a man either does 
not, or will not understand the subject he writes on, 
there must always be a deficiency. In politics he 
was generally master of what he undertook, in 
morals never. 

Mr. Addison, for a happy and natural style, will 
be always an honour to British literature. His dic- 
tion indeed wants strength, but it is equal to all the 
subjects he undertakes to handle, as he never (at 
least in his finished works) attempts any thing either 
in the argumentative or demonstrative way. 

Though sir Richard Steele's reputation as a public 
writer was owing to his connexions with Mr. Ad- 
dison, yet, after their intimacy was formed, Steele 



168 THE BEE. 

sunk in his merit as an author. This was not owing 
so much to the evident superiority on the part of 
Addison, as to the unnatural efforts which Steele 
made to equal or eclipse him. This emulation de- 
stroyed that genuine flow of diction which is dis- 
coverable in all his former compositions. 

Whilst their writings engaged attention and the 
favour of the public, reiterated but unsuccessful 
endeavours were made towards forming a grammar 
of the English language. The authors of those ef- 
forts went upon wrong principles. Instead of en- 
deavouring to retrench the^absurdities of our lan- 
guage, and bringing it to a certain criterion, their 
grammars were no other than a collection of rules 
attempting to naturalize those absurdities, and 
bring them under a regular system. 

Somewhat effectual, however, might have been 
done towards fixing the standard of the English 
language, had it not been for the spirit of party. 
For both Whigs and Tories being ambitious to stand 
at the head of so great a design, the queen's death 
happened before any plan of an academy could be 
resolved on. 

Meanwhile the necessity of such an institution 
became every day more apparent. The periodical 
and political writers, who then swarmed, adopted 
the very worst manner of L'Estrange, till not only 
all decency, but all propriety of language, was lost 
in the nation. Leslie, a pert writer, with some wit 
and learning, insulted the government every week 
with the grossest abuse. His style and manner, 
both of which were illiberal, were imitated by 
Ridpath, De Foe, Duntan, and others of the oppo- 
site party, and Toland pleaded the cause of atheism 



THE AUGUSTAN AGE OF ENGLAND. 169 

and immorality in much the same strain ; his sub- 
ject seemed to debase his diction, and he ever 
failed most in one, when he grew most licentious 
in the other. 

Towards the end of queen Anne's reign, some 
of the greatest men in England devoted their time 
to party, and then a much better manner obtained 
in political writing. Mr. Walpole, Mr. Addison, 
Mr. Mainwaring, Mr. Steele, and many members 
of both houses of parliament, drew their pens for 
the Whigs; but they seem to have been over- 
matched, though not in argument, yet in writing, 
by Bolingbroke, Prior, Swift, Arbuthnot, and the 
other friends of the opposite party. They who op- 
pose a ministry have always a better field for ridi- 
cule and reproof than those who defend it. 

Since that period our writers have either been 
encouraged above their merits or below them. Some 
who were possessed of the meanest abilities ac- 
quired the highest preferments, while others, who 
seemed born to reflect a lustre upon their age, pe- 
rished by want and neglect. More, Savage, and 
Amherst, were possessed of great abilities, yet they 
were suffered to feel all the miseries that usually 
attend the ingenious and the imprudent, that attend 
men of strong passions, and no phlegmatic reserve 
in their command. 

At present, were a man to attempt to improve 
his fortune or increase his friendship by poetry, he 
would soon feel the anxiety of disappointment. The 
press lies open, and is a benefactor to every sort of 
literature but that alone. 

I am at a loss whether to ascribe this falling off 



170 



THE BEE. 



of the public to a vicious taste in the poet, or in them. 
Perhaps both are to be reprehended. The poe 
either drily didactive gives us rules, which might 
appear abstruse even in a system of ethics, 
triflingly volatile, writes upon the most unworthy ' 
subjects ; content, if he can give music instead < 
sense ; content, if he can paint to the imagination 
without any desires or endeavours to affect; 
public therefore with justice discard such emptr 
sound, which has nothing but a jingle, or, what is 
worse, the unmusical flow of blank verse to recon 
mend it. The late method also, into which oil 
newspapers have fallen, of giving an epitome 
every new publication, must greatly damp th 
writer's genius. He finds himself in this case at th 
mercy of men who have neither abilities nor lea 
ing to distinguish his merit. He finds his own con 
position mixed with the sordid trash of every da 
scribbler. There is a sufficient specimen given 
his work to abate curiosity, and yet so mutilated i 
to render him contemptible. His first, and perhap 
his second work, by these means sink, among th 
crudities of the age, into oblivion. Fame he find 
begins to turn her back ; he therefore flies to Profi 
which invites him ; and he enrols himself in th 
lists of Dulness and of Avarice for life. 

Yet there are still among us men of the greace 
abilities, and who in some parts of learning hav 
surpassed their predecessors : justice and friendsh 
might here impel me to speak of names which \ 
shine out to all posterity, but prudence restrains me 
from what I should otherwise eagerly embrace. 
Envy might rise against every honoured name I 



OF THE OPERA IN ENGLAND. 171 

should mention, since scarcely one of them has not 
those who are his enemies, or those who despise 
him, &c. 



OF THE OPERA IN ENGLAND. 

The rise and fall of our amusements pretty much 
resemble that of empire. They this day flourish 
without any visible cause for such vigour ; the next 
they decay, without any reason that can be assigned 
for their downfall. Some years ago the Italian 
opera was the only fashionable amusement among 
our nobility. The managers of the playhouses 
dreaded it as a mortal enemy, and our very poets 
listed themselves in the opposition ; at present the 
house seems deserted, the castrati sing to empty 
benches, even prince Vologese himself, a youth of 
great expectations, sings himself out of breath, and 
rattles his chain to no purpose. 

To say the truth, the opera, as it is conducted 
among us, is but a very humdrum amusement ; in 
other countries the decorations are entirely mag- 
nificent, the singers all excellent, and the burlettas 
or interludes quite entertaining ; the best poets com- 
pose the words, and the best masters the music : but 
wiVh us it is otherwise; the decorations are but 
trifling and cheap; the singers, Matei only ex- 
cepted, but indifferent. Instead of interlude, we 
have those sorts of skipping dances which are cal- 
culated for the galleries of the theatre. Every per- 
former sings his favourite song, and the music is 
only a medley of old^Italian airs, or some meager 
modern Capricio, 

i2 



172 



THE BEE. 



When such is the case, it is not much to be won- 
dered at if the opera is pretty much neglected : the 
lower orders of people have neither taste nor for- 
tune to relish such an entertainment ; they would 
find more satisfaction in the Roast Beef of Old 
England than in the finest closes of an eunuch ; they 
sleep amidst all the agony of recitative : on the 
other hand, people of fortune or taste can hardly 
be pleased, where there is a visible poverty in the 
decorations, and an entire want of taste in the 
composition. 

Would it not surprise one, that when Metastasio 
is so well known in England, and so universally 
admired, the manager or the composer should have 
recourse to any other operas than those written by 
him ? I might venture to say, that written by Me- 
tastasio, put up in the bills of the day, would alone 
be sufficient to fill a house, since thus the admirers 
of sense as well as sound might find entertainment. 

The performers also should be entreated to sing 
only their parts, without clapping in any of their 
own favourite airs. I must own, that such songs are 
generally to me the most disagreeable in the world. 
Every singer generally chooses a favourite air, not 
from the excellency of the music, but from the dif- 
ficulty ; such songs are generally chosen to surprise 
rather than please, where the performer may show 
his compass, his breath, and his volubility. 

Hence proceed those unnatural startings, those 
unmusical closings, and shakes lengthened out to a 
painful continuance; such indeed may show a voice, 
but it must give a truly delicate ear the utmost un- 
easiness. Such tricks are not music ; neither Corelli 
nor Pergolesi ever permitted them, and they begin- 



OF THE OPERA IN ENGLAND. 173 

even to be discontinued in Italy, where they first 
had their rise. 

And now I am upon the subject, our composers 
also should affect greater simplicity ; let their bass 
cliff have all the variety they can give it ; let the 
body of the music (if I may so express it) be as va- 
rious as they please, but let them avoid ornament- 
ing a barren ground-work; let them not attempt 
by flourishing to cheat us of solid harmony. 

The works of Mr. Rameau are never heard with- 
out a surprising effect. I can attribute it only to 
this simplicity he every where observes, insomuch 
that some of his finest harmonies are often only 
octave and unison. This simple manner has greater 
powers than is generally imagined ; and were not 
such a demonstration misplaced, I think from the 
principles of music it might be proved to be most 
agreeable. 

But to leave general reflection. With the pre- 
sent set of performers, the operas, if the conductor 
thinks proper, may be carried on with some success, 
since they have all some merit ; if not as actors, at 
least as singers. Signora Matei is at once both a 
perfect actress and a very fine singer. She is pos- 
sessed of a fine sensibility in her manner, and sel- 
dom indulges those extravagant and unmusical 
flights of voice complained of before. Cornacini, 
on the other hand, is a very indifferent actor, has a 
most unmeaning face, seems not to feel his part, is 
infected with a passion of showing his compass ; but 
to recompense all these defects, his voice is melo- 
dious, he has vast compass and great volubility, his 
swell and shake are perfectly fine, unless that he 
continues the latter too long. In short, whatever 



174 THE BEE. 

the defects of his action may be, they are amply re- 
compensed by his excellency as a singer ; nor can I 
avoid fancying that he might make a much greater 
figure in an oratorio than upon the stage. 

However, upon the whole, I know not whether 
ever operas can be kept up in England ; they seem 
to be entirely exotic, and require the nicest manage- 
ment and care. Instead of this, the care of them 
is assigned to men unacquainted with the genius 
and disposition of the people they would amuse, 
and whose only motives are immediate gain. Whe- 
ther a discontinuance of such entertainments would 
be more to the loss or the advantage of the nation^ 
I will not take upon me to determine, since it is as 
much our interest to induce foreigners of taste among 
us on the one hand, as it is to discourage those tri- 
fling members of society who generally compose the 
operatical dramatis personce on the other. 



INDEX. 



\ 

No. Page 

J Introduction 3 

Remarks on our Theatres 9 

Story of Alcander and Septimius ....... 1 4 

Letter from a Traveller 19 

Short Account of M. Maupertuis ....... 22 

2 On Dress . 24 

Particulars relative to Charles XII 31 

Happiness dependent on Constitution 37 

On our Theatres 41" 

3 On the. Use of Language 44 

The History of Hypasia 51 

On Justice and Generosity 5f) 

Some Particulars relating to Father Freijo . . . .61 

4 Miscellaneous 62 

A Flemish Tradition 68 

Sagacity of some Insects 72 

f Characteristics of Greatness 78 

A City Night-Piece 81 

5 Upon Political Frugality 84 

A Reverie 96 

A word or two on High Life Below Stairs . • . 104 
Upon unfortunate Merit 1C6 

6 On Education 110 

The Instability of Worldly Grandeur .... 123 
Some Account of the Academies of Italy . . .128 

7 Of Eloquence . . • 1 30 

Custom and Laws compared . 141 



176 INDEX. 

No. Page 

Of the Pride and Luxury of the Middling Class of 

People 145 

Sabinus and Olinda 147 

Sentiments of a Frenchman on the Temper of the 

English 151 

8 On Deceit and Falsehood 154 

Account of the Augustan Age of England . . . . l6l 
i Of the Opera in England 1 71 



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